


The Truth Of Absolutes

by MapsWindsor (WeMightAswellBeStrangers), WeMightAswellBeStrangers



Series: Zero Hundred Hours [3]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Angst, Blackmail, Domestic Fluff, Domestic Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich, F/M, Gen, Heartbreak, Love, M/M, POV Ian Gallagher, POV Mickey Milkovich, Sequel, Sexual Content, Tags will be added ;-), Violence, You will have to wait and see!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-13
Updated: 2015-10-25
Packaged: 2018-04-04 04:03:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 32,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4124934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WeMightAswellBeStrangers/pseuds/MapsWindsor, https://archiveofourown.org/users/WeMightAswellBeStrangers/pseuds/WeMightAswellBeStrangers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been a year, a whole damn year, since Ian stepped off the bus and into Mickey's new life at the end of Zero Hundred Hours. </p><p>It hasn't been easy, but Maine has become home to them both, full of new opportunities and a second chance at happiness. It's a fucking fairy tale ending, and Mickey and Ian are loving every second.</p><p>But even fairy tales have no guarantees... especially when there's a history as checkered as theirs involved.</p><p>Could an unwelcome blast from the past bring their new world crashing down around them?</p><p>-</p><p>*The sequel to Zero Hundred Hours*</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Maps

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kittleimp](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittleimp/gifts).



> Amazing readers, and especially my loyal commentors- I love and adore you all. You make my day, every day! Thank you for being so damn fabulous. Your awesomeness is a little sickening, frankly.
> 
> Find me on tumblr [here :)](http://mapswindsor.tumblr.com)
> 
> Beta appreciation time:  
> ~ Dana- your yelling brings me endless joy; honestly guys, she even abuses me in her official beta capacity. So. much. swearing. over the misplacement of a period or unwarranted paragraph ;-) You're a gorgeous pile of sass.  
> ~ [Christina NYC](http://archiveofourown.org/users/grumblesandmumbles/pseuds/grumblesandmumbles) \- thank you for your always speedy turnaround, you're an animal and I love it. We are both so impatient and do our best not to yell at each other too much but let's be honest...our yelling is half of the fun. Much appreciation for my problematic fave <3  
> ~ [Riley Blue](http://archiveofourown.org/users/kittleimp/pseuds/kittleimp) \- my merrping soulmate, you make my whole world better, not just my writing! Thank you for everything, and then all the extra stuff, too ;-) Respect the |.
> 
> Big, angsty, Shameless kisses from NJ...

 

* * *

 

Sometimes, in the early morning hush, when the birds were still sleeping and the sun was slung low in the sky, Ian would stir.

Not fully awake, he would lie as still as he could in a disoriented haze, eyes closed, somewhere between the rich world of sleep and the concrete awareness of consciousness. There he would stay, trying to decide without the visual evidence in front of him, between what was reality and what he had created in his own mind.

Sometimes he would think; _I’m in Chicago, I’m in my old room at the house, lying in my bed, with my family around me._ He would concentrate so hard on this reality he could almost hear Carl breathing deeply across the room and Liam mumbling incoherently in his crib a foot away.

Other times he would think; _I’m in my apartment, my alarm clock will go off any second to rouse me from this bed, and I have to get up and go to work._ He would be so sure of this actuality he could almost picture himself spending the day ahead on the obstacle course, or in the training yard, making weekend plans with Sarah and Adam between his classes.

Most often, as he kept his eyes steadfastly closed, he would think; _I’m everywhere, in all of these places, and yet nowhere at all._ His heart would beat faster as he tried to place himself, to pin himself on the map of his life as he considered it all in a deafening tirade, all the possibilities of where he could be.

Slowly, inevitably, he’d hear the birds gradually begin their lilting morning chorus outside. The bright rays of the rising sun would sneak around the edges of the curtains, turning the inside of his eyelids from black to a reddish glow, and the boy sleeping next to him would shift in his slumber. Then, finally, Ian would open his eyes.

He would see Mickey, the tousled black head lying next to his on the pillow, and his heart would expand almost painfully in his chest.

The boundless possibilities of his reality would slot into place as he thought; _this is where I am_. _In Maine, with Mickey, in this life we are building together_. His heart would swell with joy at the confirmation of this truth, and he’d find himself exactly where he should be.

He would sketch out a new map for his life in his mind’s eye and pin himself to it with absolute certainty, pulling the sleeping boy close to him and enveloping himself in his solid warmth. _This is where I belong_ , he would think in contentment, before giving himself back over to sleep.

 

* * *

 

“You want breakfast?” Mickey looked up from the bowl of cereal he was pouring as Ian rounded the corner, offering up the box of cereal. “We’ve got toast, or this.” Ian raised a sleepy hand in greeting as he shook his head blearily.

“Nah, Mick. No time.” He smiled at Mickey, staring at him in his picture of domesticity so long that Mickey shifted on the balls of his feet self-consciously.

“C’mere, you lazy fuck.” He reached out to pull Ian to him, and the two boys stood still momentarily, arms around each other, Ian resting his head on Mickey’s shoulder.

These were the moments Mickey could never get enough of. The quiet, everyday nothings, where an embrace wasn’t a reconciliation, or a weapon, or a prelude to sex, but just an embrace. When he could open his arms and Ian would enter them, for no other reason than because he could, _they_ could, and they wanted to. It wasn’t a natural feeling for Mickey to be so unguarded in his emotions, but after a year of this life, he was learning to accept it. 

“We’re out of Lucky Charms. Pick some up on your way home tonight?” Ian mumbled into his shoulder, as Mickey pushed him away with a laugh.

“Lucky Charms? What are you, fucking six?” Mickey scoffed, heading back to the counter to pour milk over his cornflakes.

“Just get some, idiot.” Ian said with a grin as he picked his backpack up off the floor.

“Leaving already?” Mickey asked through a mouthful of cornflakes, appraising the good-looking redhead in the morning light. Ian wore his hair cropped neatly at his head, a requirement for all ROTC staff, and the snug t-shirt and form-fitting cargo pants accentuated his taut frame well. _Fucking hot._

“Early meeting. New school year, new students. Gotta debrief the team.” Ian replied, taking the spoon from Mickey’s hand and shoving a mouthful of cereal in his own mouth.

“Hey! That’s fucking mine.” Mickey batted his hand away, then put the bowl on the counter behind him and hooked his fingers through the belt loops on Ian’s pants to pull him roughly towards him. “I’ve got something you can debrief right…fucking…here.” He ground himself against Ian suggestively as the redhead laughed.

“Max will kill me if I make you late again.” He pushed Mickey off him, and pulled his head quickly towards him to plant a rough kiss on his dark hair.

“Fucking battle-axe.” Mickey grumbled in response as Ian ambled towards the door. “She’s always bitching about something.”

“I’ll see you two for drinks tonight at the Station.” Ian called, the door swinging shut behind him.

“Yeah, yeah.” Mickey muttered under his breath. He picked his bowl up from the counter and continued crunching away, watching Ian through the window as he sauntered down the street.

It had been almost a year, a _whole fucking year_ , and Mickey still didn’t quite believe they were here. They had really done it, who would have fucking thought it? That day when he had hurried to the station, heart in his throat, waiting to greet Ian as he got off the bus from Chicago...it felt like yesterday, but like a lifetime ago at the same time.

Mickey moved around to the couch and sat, kicking his feet up lazily on the coffee table in front of him. It had been the best year of his fucking life, not that he would ever admit it to Ian.

They had folded together like a house of cards in the wind on that first day, collapsing into each other violently with no real plans to rebuild. They had fucked their way solidly through the first week, laying in a destroyed heap and reaching for each other again and again as they filled their senses with the relief of togetherness. All of the careful planning around their reunion had blown away like dust in the tornado of their need as they were absorbed into each other, only leaving the condo to pick up food and beer when absolutely necessary, and crashing together again as soon as they stepped back through the door. It had been a long time coming, and neither of them had the strength or the desire to fight it.

After days and nights filled with only each other, they finally began to sate the unrelenting desire to be in each other, on each other, around the clock. Then the rebuilding had begun. Quiet talks pushed mostly from Ian’s corner, planning, moving forward, as they lay in bed, fingers tangled together over their heads. Mickey had finally reluctantly left the condo, Ian by his side, as he showed him his Maine, his world, slinking into the tattoo shop at night when it was dark and empty, and taking trial runs on the bus to the school where Ian was to begin his new job a week later.

They spoke quietly, laughed quietly, and loved quietly, both trying to protect this new fragile world they were creating together. Their shouts of joy as they climaxed together were the only noises that broke the hush on a regular basis, until Max crashed her way into their world on the sixth day by showing up unannounced at the condo. She had banged loudly and obnoxiously on the door until Mickey finally stumbled down the stairs to answer, pulling his boxers on as he hopped gracelessly down the steps.

“Alright, alright, I’m fucking coming!” He had yelled in irritation, as he yanked open the door. “What the fuck?” Max barreled past him into the condo.

“What the fuck? _What the fuck, kid_? That’s my question for you, you little shit! You said two days. _Two days_! It’s been a fucking week.” Max stood, hands resting on her stout hips in decided annoyance, large bust heaving visibly at the exertion. “You just fucking disappeared! No calls, no texts, nothing. Leave me to do all the fucking work, why don’cha? Make me traipse all the way across town to chase your ass down, too!”

“Alright, alright.” Mickey sighed at the angry onslaught and rubbed his eyes wearily. “Calm the fuck down.” He reached over to the table, grabbing his pack of cigarettes and offering one to Max. She grabbed it from his fingers aggressively.

“Don’t tell me to calm down, kid.” She said roughly, lighting her cigarette and frowning at him. “We’re partners. You can’t pull that shit, got it?” Mickey leaned over to take the lighter, and patted her back with a conciliatory nod of his head.

“I got it. Sorry, you miserable old bitch. Won’t happen again. I just got…distracted.”

“Mhm.” Max hummed curtly, and Mickey knew he was forgiven. “So where is he, then?” Mickey glanced involuntarily up the stairs, to where he had left Ian in bed moments before.

“Sleeping.”

“Sleeping, huh?” Max glanced down at Mickey’s boxers, where evidence of the fact that he and Ian had been doing everything but sleeping had yet to fully soften. Mickey cleared his throat defensively, and tugged at his boxers to loosen their hold.

“I’m not sleeping.” A deep voice called from the stairs, and Ian came into view. Fully dressed, _that shit_! Mickey felt a self-conscious blush rise to his cheeks. Ian walked around Max and slipped his arm over Mickey's shoulders casually, causing the older boy to tense in apprehension.

“You must be Max.” Ian smiled at the tattooed woman openly, and she exhaled a puff of smoke in his direction.

“And you must be the reason this asshole hasn’t been to work all fucking week.” Max responded gruffly. Ian barked out a laugh as Mickey relaxed his tense pose. Ian dropped his arm and walked over to extend a hand to Max.

“Good to meet you, Max.” He grinned, and she reluctantly gripped his hand with a sardonic raise of her eyebrows.

“Yeah, you too, kid. Welcome to the middle of fucking nowhere.”

 _Maine_.

Mickey dropped his bowl in the sink as he shook his head, pulling himself out of the memory. It was so bizarre to think of them here, hundreds of miles away from where they began in the shitty slums of South Side Chicago. Even crazier to think of life going on without them there now; Iggy, Jamie, Tony and Colin still rumbling around the streets of the old neighborhood, filling their days with scams and ‘errands’ to fund their next drinking binge and keep a roof over their heads. He was sure his brothers had already drunken away the pitiful share they had each received from the sale of the house months before. That could have been him, had he stayed.

No, he had no desire to return to that life. Here was where he belonged. Here, where his days began and ended with Ian, and the hours in between were filled with satisfying designs at the tattoo shop and easy banter and drinks with Max and their friends. Mickey had never felt so fucking content in his whole life…and it scared the shit out of him.

He may love his boyfriend, but old habits died hard, and Mickey’s fierce self-protectiveness was a bitch that just wouldn’t lay dormant. It had been the source of most of their struggles over the past 12 months, a period smattered in almost equal parts with joy, laughter and love, alongside screaming, angry fights which left them both wounded emotionally. They rarely attacked each other physically these days, but Mickey had come to learn that the mental blows exchanged between them had far more power to destroy than any punch either of them had ever thrown.

Despite this, Mickey didn’t waste time on fear, _not anymore_ , he thought as he ran his fingers through his slicked back hair and grabbed his keys from the counter. When the panic at their intimacy would overwhelm him he would channel it into marathon fucks with Ian, or start one of their rowdy fights to relieve the tension. Ian could always tell what was happening. It wasn’t the healthiest of solutions, but it worked.

Their relationship still wasn’t easy, but it was different now. The threat of separation that once held strong and true behind every word they battled each other with was gone, making the desperation less devastating. Instead, a stony silence between them was the worst threat they each held, not always knowing how they would find their way back to peace again, but sure that they would.

Mickey glanced at the clock behind him and slung on his jacket, heading out of the condo. _Fuck_! Late again. He paced briskly down the street, hands shoved firmly into his pockets as leaves crunched under foot. Max would give him shit, but then again, when didn’t she? He smiled gruffly to himself. It didn’t matter, his first appointment wasn’t until ten, anyway. He nodded quickly at a neighbour sweeping her front porch, and bent his head towards the sidewalk as he increased his speed.

 _This is it,_ Mickey thought to himself distractedly, _I’ve made it... we’ve made it at last._

These ordinary days filled with extraordinary moments, in a life he never thought could be his were, unbelievably, his own. He repeated these words to himself almost daily, like a mantra in the quiet of his own thoughts, trying to convince himself of their truth. Still, though, his heart pounded with doubt. Still, when he echoed these words reassuringly around his brain, they were always, unavoidably, followed by the same persistent whisper...

 _But for how long_?

No time for that now. Mickey hushed the voice dismissively, pulling his phone out of his pocket and scrolling through the contacts. He found who he was looking for and connected the call, holding the phone up to his ear.

"Max? Yeah, it's me. I'm gonna be fucking late."

 

* * *

 


	2. Open Waves

* * *

 

Ian pushed his chair back from the conference table with a satisfied grin and began gathering the papers in front of him. The other ROTC trainers rose around the room, laughing, slapping each other on the back, and catching up after months of separation from the Summer break.

“What’s been going on with you, Gallagher?” He looked up to see Mike, one of the junior trainers, leaning over the edge of the round desk to speak to him.

“Ah, not much. Working, working, working. Not all of us get to to slack off for two straight months you know.” Ian replied, raising his eyebrows. Mike grinned cheerfully at his words, clapping a large, tan hand on Ian’s shoulder as he rose.

“Not my fault you’re a glutton for punishment.” Mike chuckled, shrugging in amusement.

“Ha.” Ian replied dryly, as he followed his friend out the door. He shook his shoulders to loosen them while Mike’s back was turned.

“How did the Summer program go this year, anyway?” Mike asked him as they fell into step beside each other. They wandered down the hallway, pausing at the entrance to Mike’s office, shared with the two other junior officers.

“Not bad, actually.” Ian replied with satisfaction. “We had a full roster. Nice break to spend a few months with kids who haven’t had their spirits broken by the evil college system, you know? More of what I’m used to.”

“That’s right, I forgot you trained high schoolers back in Chicago.” Mike patted his friend on the back and walked into his office. “Yeesh. All those fucking hormones and smart mouths? No thanks. Give me a batch of college kids any day. At least they have the ability to go out and act on their frustrations, instead of bouncing off the walls like freaking grenades ready to pop.” Ian laughed in response at the imagery, continuing the walk down the hall to his own office.

“At least they have an excuse to be assholes, poor bastards. What’s yours?” He called back to his friend as he entered his office and closed the door behind him, the sound of Mike’s laughter bouncing off the corridor walls.

 _Phew_. He dropped the pile of papers on his desk in relief. He was glad the debriefing was over. The gratitude he felt at the expanded responsibility his superior officer had decided to give him after his efforts during the Summer program had not removed the feelings of pressure and anxiety he had at helping to lead a team made up of officers who were mostly older than himself. Everything had moved so quickly since his arrival a year before, he barely had time to catch his breath.

He looked around his small, messy office with a satisfied smile, leaning back in his chair and putting his feet up on the desk. He loved his job, loved the college the ROTC program was housed in. It wasn’t so different to the ROTC he had grown up with. Same rules, same rankings, same drills. Older kids than he was used to, most barely younger than he was, but he remembered what his commanding officer had told him back in Chicago all those years before:

_"It’s all about approach, Gallagher. You believe you damn well should be respected, they'll believe it too.”_

Best advice he had ever been given, Ian mused thoughtfully now. True, too. When he barked orders and delivered directions he looked at this batch of cadets no differently to the way he had looked at the kids back in Chicago, and so they, in turn, looked at him with the same respect. If only he could get Mickey to follow direction so easily, he smirked to himself.

He reached into his top drawer and pulled out the small photograph he had of Mickey and himself tucked in there. It was a photo strip of them from Sarah and Adam’s wedding they had taken in the booth, Ian with a toy ukulele strapped across his chest and an army beret on his head, Mickey with a fake mustache held up reluctantly against his face, partially covering his grumpy smile.

Ian grinned at the memory. It hadn’t been easy, convincing Mickey to go back to Chicago with him two months ago for the celebration. Mickey had grumbled incessantly about the 18 hour bus ride, but Ian knew his feelings of hesitation were based on more than just that. Mickey had tried to cover his reluctance to head back to their old neighborhood with countless fights and a stubborn refusal to go, not admitting his real concerns at the possibly earth-shattering changes this visitation to their shared past could have on him, on them both. Finally, Ian had enough, impulsively booking their tickets online in frustration and showing him the confirmation on his phone.

“We’re going Mick. And then we’re coming back.” Mickey had turned from him angrily, lighting up a cigarette with trembling fingers. Ian had grabbed his face roughly, forcing him to meet his eyes. “Do you hear me? These tickets are returns. We’re coming back. It’s one weekend; it’s not gonna change anything.”

That hadn’t been entirely true. Something had shifted since their return from Chicago, but it wasn’t necessarily something bad. Being back on the familiar streets of their old neighborhood in this new, more secure relationship had cemented their faith that they had both been right to leave.

The wedding had been fun, albeit a little awkward, as Mickey had tried to fit in and make nice with Ian’s friends. After initial attempts at stiff conversation, Mickey had mostly stayed on the edge of the dance floor. He nursed beer after beer as he watched Ian dance with the wedding party, smiling a gruff rebuttal when Sarah and Ian had tried to drag him out to join them.

Ian had succeeded only once, towards the end of the night, when many of the guests had already departed and Mickey was several beers in. It was a slow, melancholy song about lost love and heartache, and Ian had tugged a stumbling Mickey onto the makeshift dance floor in Adam’s parent’s spacious backyard, pulling their bodies together as the lights of the tent sparkled around them.

“I don’t fucking dance.” Mickey had slurred resentfully into his ear, and Ian had laughed softly against the side of his neck, the breeze wafting a penetrating rush of arousal through the liquor-induced haze surrounding Mickey, straight to his core.

“Then just stand here with me, you asshole.” He gripped a hand under Mickey’s chin and kissed him swiftly on his open mouth. Mickey had shrugged him off, glancing defensively around him. Nobody was looking. Nobody cared. There was no Terry here to attack them for the show of intimacy. Slowly, almost reluctantly, he relaxed into the redhead’s steady arms. “You stand, Mick, I’ll dance.”

They had swayed unevenly together through the song, and the next, until Sarah bounced over to them in her puffy white dress to pull them into a group circle for the upbeat dance song at the third track change. Mickey had slunk off quickly at the intrusion, uncomfortable with the group revelry, and settled back into the chair by his beer.

“He’s so cute!” Sarah had yelled loudly into Ian’s ear as they watched his departure, moving in the circular dance with the others.

“Cute?” Ian had laughed at the odd choice of word, not one he would ever have associated with Mickey fucking Milkovich. Dark? _Yes_. Dangerous, brooding, coarse, rough, violent…hell, even beautiful in his own jagged, unforgiving way, but never cute.

“Well, maybe not cute.” Sarah had agreed smilingly. “But he has a certain appeal.” Ian pulled her in for a rough hug of appreciation. “Was it- did you make the right choice?” She mumbled into his shoulder. Ian paused at the question, considering his response.

“Going up there was never really a choice.” Sarah furrowed her brow in concern, and Ian nudged her playfully, smiling at her in reassurance. “I just mean Mickey was never a choice. He just was, _is_... mine. If he’s in Maine, I’m in Maine.” She nodded acceptingly at his words, then broke into a teasing grin.

“I can feel the chemistry between you two from here. It feels like I’m getting freaking electrocuted every time I walk through his line of sight! He never takes his eyes off you.” Ian had smirked over at Mickey, where he was standing darkly in the corner, blue eyes burning into him.

“Would you?” Ian asked cockily. Sarah laughed at his response, delighting in her friend’s quiet happiness.

After the wedding they had spent the day with his siblings, a battle even more difficult to win than getting Mickey to Illinois in the first place. That time had been less fun, although joyous at first, as Ian was welcomed with open arms and endless hugs from his long-missed siblings. Fiona clucked over him like a protective mother hen as Debbie peppered him with questions about his new life in Maine, Lip standing smirking in the background at his narrative. Carl was absent, back in juvie for holding up a convenience store the month before.

“Dumb shit.” Mickey had muttered in amusement to the glares of Fiona and Lip, when they explained that Carl hadn’t worn a disguise and had been caught within the hour. Those were the only words Mickey had uttered during their hours at the Gallagher house. Ian resentfully nudged his siblings towards Mickey, finally calling them out on their coldness towards him. 

“What the hell do you want us to say to him, Ian? We’re not all best fucking buds now just because you decided to run away to Maine and shack up with a Milkovich.” Lip had retorted bluntly as Mickey stood to go, laughing cynically under his breath. Ian had caught up with him by the door, tugging on his arm angrily.

“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?” He bit out roughly, a glimmer of the old panic in his eyes. Mickey had shrugged off his tight grasp and turned to face him, leaning forward to speak quietly into his ear.

“It don’t fucking matter how they feel about me, Ian.” He said intently, touching Ian’s hand briefly with his own. “You and me…just...we’re here for you, okay? Not me. Just go be with your fucking family. I’ll be back in a hour.”

“I’m coming with you.” Ian said through gritted teeth, reaching over to grab his jacket from the couch behind him. Mickey stilled his hand firmly in mid-air.

“No, you’re not.” There was no bitterness in Mickey’s steady tone as he stared unmovingly at the redhead, eyebrows raised. Ian looked at Mickey appraisingly for a minute, then sighed.

“Okay, Mick.” He replied finally, a note of warning in his voice as he forced the other boy into a swift, hard embrace. “One hour.”

Ian wasn’t sure where Mickey had gone during that time he spent with his family. He was doubtful he had been to visit the brothers he had long since lost contact with, but he smelled beer on his breath at his return, so figured the Alibi Room might have been his port of call. Ian didn’t ask, and Mickey didn’t tell.

They had returned to Maine in reflective silence, both of them processing the enormity of the past couple of days in different ways. Ian hummed with renewed certainty at his choice, glad to have been around the grounding love of his family and solid friendship of Sarah and their group of friends once more, but just as glad to be leaving, indifferent toward the zip code they were driving away from.

Mickey’s silence had been almost sullen as he watched the Chicago skyline fade away in the distance. It was a city full of ghosts for him, and being back there had made him question who he was again, if he was enough, if he was right to have uprooted Ian from this circle of protective love when all he could offer him in it’s place was… _him_. He couldn’t wait to get home.

It had taken a few weeks, but they had found their way back to normality and closeness again. Their relationship often felt like a ship at sea, constantly being pulled back into port by the realities of their external connections when all they wanted to do was sail on the open ocean together. Even while out, there was no guarantee that a storm wouldn’t hit unexpectedly, throwing them overboard into the tumultuous waters below. But their love was strong, and they swam against the currents, battling exhaustedly for their togetherness. Nothing made sense when they weren’t together, and the world was a brighter, more joyful place when they were.

Even now, as Ian sat in his quiet office, placing the photograph back in the drawer and gathering up the papers in front of him into a tidy pile, he felt an almost palpable link to Mickey. Even now when they weren’t physically together, Ian felt the invisible cords stretching between them, tracing the miles separating them and keeping their connection alive.

The threads had never gone, not really, not even during their dark days of separation. But then they had been weak and limp, like a thin, fragile shoelace worn down to feeble strings by years of misuse, and now they blazed strong and bright, like a trail of invincible fire burning impenetrably between them. He pictured Mickey in his mind’s-eye, his muscular form bent over a client in the chair, dark hair falling into his eyes, etching colorful designs intently into their skin, and felt a rush of heat to his gut. He reached for his phone without forethought, tapping out a message with an unconscious smile on his face.

 

> _I love you, Mick._

Then-

> _Don’t forget my Lucky Charms._

 

A second later his phone pinged a reply.

 

> _Yeah, yeah, douchebag_

He read. Then a second ping a moment after that;

> _U 2._

 

Ian read Mickey’s words with a satisfied grin, dropping his phone on the desk abruptly as a sharp rap at the door yanked him back to reality. He pulled his feet off the desk and stood quickly to attention, yanking his hand to his head in a salute of greeting to his superior officer as he entered the small room.

“Officer White.”

“At ease, Gallagher.” The officer rounded his desk, clapping an approving hand on his shoulder heartily. “Good job today. The debriefing was a success.”

Ian sat back down in his chair, inviting his supervisor to take the seat opposite him with a wave of his hand.

“Thank you, Sir. Everybody seemed to respond well.” White sat, lacing his hands under his chin as he appraised Ian thoughtfully.

“You’re doing well here, Gallagher. I’m glad to see it. The junior trainers look up to you, and even the senior officers respond well to your leadership.” Ian nodded stiffly at the praise, threading his fingers together under the desk. Why did it feel like there was a ‘ _but_ ’ waiting at the end of this conversation?

“Just doing my job, Sir. Glad to be of service.” White nodded at his words, leaning forward.

“As you know, our department relies on donations as much as government support and university funding." Ian nodded slowly. Here was the _but_ , although he wasn’t sure what form it was taking yet. “A lot of our fundraising comes from ex-ROTC members, but a significant portion of it comes from outside sources who are interested in our program.” White paused, and Ian leaned forward.

“I understand, Sir. So you want me to…” Ian trailed off uncertainly, still unsure as to where his commanding officer was going with this. White cleared his throat.

“These outside donors like to get a full picture of our program before they decide to donate. As one of our newer and more enthusiastic trainers, I felt you would be the ideal candidate to ‘show them the ropes’, so to speak.” _Ah_. There it was.

“No problem, Sir.” He could do that, spend an afternoon showing some millionaire benefactor around the facility. Not a bad ‘but’, all things considered, so Ian couldn’t figure out why a bubble of unease had formed in the pit of his stomach that seemed to be growing by the second. Officer White straightened at his agreement, smiling and rising from the chair, oblivious to the internal battle Ian was fighting across the desk from him.

“Excellent, Gallagher. First showing’s at noon tomorrow. I’ll send him to your office when he gets here.”

Ian stood, saluting his superior officer, and watched him leave the room in silence. He fell back heavily into his chair as soon as he was gone.

 _What the fuck?_ He reached over to the bottle of water next to his cell phone, and gulped back the liquid noisily, trying to quell the rising nausea in the back of his throat. He wasn’t sure what had just happened, but something in his gut told him it wasn’t good.

 _Stop it_ , he told himself stiffly. Ian shook his head to clear the rumbling disquiet that was echoing around his brain. Back to work. He leaned over the papers on his desk determinedly, pushing away the cloud of uneasiness hovering stubbornly at the edges of his consciousness.

 

* * *

 


	3. The First Absolute

* * *

 

“Two more, Sam.” Max slapped a handful of dollar bills on the counter of their local bar as Mickey shifted on the bar stool next to her.

“Make that three.” He muttered, looking up from his phone. “Ian says he’ll be here in five.”

“You heard the man.” Max nodded her thanks as the bartender placed two beers in front of them, and returned to the pump for a third. “Lover boy’s late today.” She observed as she took a noisy gulp of beer, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

“Yeah, new school year or some shit. ROTC’s getting a fresh batch of trainees. Not gonna see much of him for the next couple of weeks.” He answered grumpily.

“Good. Maybe you’ll actually get to work on fucking time for once.” Max replied with a sardonic raise of her eyebrows. Mickey gave her the finger and grabbed his and Ian’s frothy beers from the counter.

He turned to scan the bar, spying an empty table in the far corner. He nodded towards it and Max led the way, greeting familiar faces they passed with smiles and easy jokes. They were regular fixtures here, Max having come for years, and Mickey having joined her since he first came to town. Ian had also been quickly welcomed in by the locals as one of the pack. The three of them often started off with a quiet drink and ended the night entertaining the masses, Max’s raucous laughter drawing people in as she and Mickey regaled the crowds with stories of their clients.

Mickey often found himself, in those rowdy moments, looking first to Ian’s face, then Max’s, then Jim or Sue or John or Al, or whoever the hell was crowded around them. He would think back to his years spent hunched over the bar the Alibi Room; a shitty kid from the even shittier South Side. He remembered the isolating feeling of being surrounded by his father’s cronies, all trying to drink their troubles away one beer at a time.

It was such a different vibe here, in Middle Of Nowhere, Maine. People came to socialize, to actually fucking talk to each other rather than just co-existing over endless beers - a radical concept. Maybe it wasn’t really so different at all, Mickey mused now, maybe it was just he that was different.

He felt a large hand grip his shoulder and looked up to see Ian leaning in for a kiss. It wasn’t a full on assault, just a warm, quick press of his lips to Mickey’s jawline, and the sudden tension in his shoulders faded quickly. They still weren’t overly affectionate in public, but not because of the fear of retribution that had plagued them in the old days. It just wasn’t their way. They were private; their love was private. Mickey protected it fiercely, and Ian understood. It was one of the things Mickey loved best about him.

“How’s it going, Max?” Ian smiled at the older woman and she raised a hand in greeting, ignoring his question.

“Wonder boy’s here at last. Good. Now maybe the kid here will stop fucking moping around.” She responded with a gruff smile. Mickey flipped her the bird.

“Jesus Max, I wasn’t fucking moping. You try spending eight hours straight with your miserable ass and see how happy you are.” He shook his head, turning to Ian as he settled on to the stool between them. “How was your day?”

A shadow flickered across Ian’s face as he answered.

“Good, but…” He paused, taking a sip of beer. “Nah, it was good. Debriefing went well. Met the new cadets at orientation. Seems like a good group.” Mickey cocks his head at Ian’s words. He didn’t miss the momentary unease.

“So what was the ‘but’?” Mickey asked, licking his lips.

“No,” Ian answered, waving his hands dismissively and looking around the bar distractedly. “Nothing. No ‘but’. All good.”

Mickey frowned. There was something there, something bothering Ian that he clearly didn’t want to talk about. Mickey was frustrated at the radio silence, but let it slide for the time being. _I’ll get it out of him later_ , he thought to himself, _when we’re alone_. The packed bar was no place for a heart to fucking heart. Max looked between the two of them slowly, raising her eyebrows.

“I don’t know about any ‘buts’,” she began eventually, “but we sure had a couple of asses come into the fucking shop today. Matching leprechaun tattoos. Leprechauns! They weren’t even fucking Irish. Bunch of idiots. I said to them...“

Mickey’s mind wandered as Max launched into her story, watching as Ian’s shoulders relaxed and he laughed at her recitation of their day. As always, Mickey was torn between enjoying the easy camaraderie the three of them shared, and the urge to pull Ian to his feet and back the fuck home so they could be alone.

“Right Mickey?” He pulled his attention back to Max at the sound of his name.

“What?” Mickey asked distractedly, looking up. Max shook her head in resignation and slid her empty beer glass down on to the table.

“Jesus, forget it. Off on another fucking planet, this one.” She stood, looking around the table appraisingly at their half finished beers. “I’m getting another round.”

 

* * *

 

Mickey and Ian stumbled into their dark condo hours later, arms wrapped loosely around each other. They kicked off their shoes and Ian dropped tiredly down on the sofa, sprawling his legs across it’s length as Mickey flicked on the lights.

“Jeez, I’m wiped. This is gonna be a hell of a year, I can tell already.” Ian muttered, resting his head against the arm of the couch with his eyes closed. Mickey grabbed two bottles of water from the fridge and walked over to him, nudging his legs out of the way and making Ian sit up. He squeezed down next to him. Home at last.

“Move over.” He instructed, twisting open the caps and handing one bottle to Ian. They took long, satisfying gulps of the cool liquid, and Mickey turned to face his boyfriend. “Alright, fucking spill already.”

Ian opened one eye lazily to squint at Mickey, poorly faked innocence wrinkling his face.

“What are you talking about?” He yawned, stretching his arms above his head so his grey ROTC shirt rode up on his stomach, exposing the bottom of his abs. Mickey blinked down at the sight, momentarily distracted. His fingers itched to reach out and smooth the skin under his palm, feeling the muscles tighten and ripple under his touch, but he clamped his hands into fists at his side and shook his head. _This was more important._

“The fucking ‘but', at the bar, when I asked you about your day.” If Mickey hadn’t been studying Ian so intently, he would have missed the brief second of stillness that Ian held mid-stretch, the tiny hitch in his breathing as he considered his reply. It passed, and Ian dropped his arms, grabbing the water from Mickey’s hand and placing it with his own on the floor by their feet.

“The only ‘but’ I remember from the bar,” Ian said with a grin as he slipped his arms around Mickey’s waist and yanked him sideways, pushing him down so Mickey was lying on the cushions with Ian kneeling over him. “Is yours.”

Ian leaned down, stretching his full body length over Mickey’s as he hooked the dark haired boy’s feet with his own and lowered his face to kiss him.

“Ian!” Mickey said in frustration, trying to bat him away and push himself back up. “I’m fucking serious man. I wanna talk about this.” Ian began moving against Mickey, reaching up to grab his flailing hands and holding them above his head, as he planted butterfly kisses on Mickey's twisting face and neck.

“Are you though?” Ian asked teasingly, continuing his rhythm; _grind, kiss, grind, kiss_. “Are you serious, Mick?”

Mickey couldn’t help laughing, despite his exasperation.

“You’re such a fucking ass.” He wriggled out of Ian’s grasp, yanking his arms free roughly and gripping Ian’s hips as he flipped him over, straddling him tightly. He glanced down at the bulge in Ian’s pants. “Looks like I’m not the only one who’s fucking serious.” Mickey murmured, raising his eyebrows at Ian’s smirking face.

As tempting as Ian’s hard dick underneath him was, Mickey wasn’t going to cave without an answer. Too many times before they had fucked themselves up because of their inability to talk, and being apart from Ian was much fucking harder than starting a conversation. _Just...stop...fucking...moving_. Mickey swallowed back the groan of arousal climbing in his own throat at Ian’s wriggling, and looked at him intently.

“You okay? Cut the shit, I know there’s fucking somethi-“

“Mickey,” Ian interrupted him firmly. “I’m fine. We’re fine.” Ian smiled mischievously at him as he bucked up into Mickey’s ass, making him fall forward until they were laying face to face. “At least we will be, once you shut the fuck up and put that mouth of yours to better use.”

Ian leaned forward as Mickey opened his mouth to deliver a smart ass retort, pressing their lips together and slipping his hands around Mickey’s ass. He gripped him bruisingly through his jeans, and tangled their bodies together so they rolled off the couch. They slammed down on to the floor with simultaneous ‘oofs’, Mickey taking the brunt of the impact as he hit the ground underneath Ian.

Mickey hummed into Ian's mouth when their lips crashed together once more. _There it was_. Jesus. Kissing Ian was the hottest fucking sensation he’d ever felt. Electricity buzzed through every strand of his hair as their tongues battled, and he thrust his body up towards Ian's, sliding a hand over his chest and tangling his fingers in his red hair. _Shit_ , he could do this fucking dance with him forever.

“Don’t fuck around with me, Ian.” He ground out against Ian’s lips, his grasp on their earlier conversation quickly slipping away as he tried to remember what they had been talking about.

“Never.” Ian replied breathlessly, tugging Mickey’s shirt up over his head with one hand while he yanked at the button of his jeans with the other.

Ian pushed away from Mickey’s mouth and trailed blazing kisses down the side of his face, stopping at his neck to bite and suck at the smooth skin. Mickey arched his neck eagerly in response, giving Ian better access to the sensitive skin under his ear.

“You taste so fucking good.” Ian moaned throatily against Mickey’s skin, the vibration sending a shiver through Mickey’s body. Mickey keened low in his throat as Ian freed him from his pants, his breath stuttering as Ian used his teeth to draw dark marks to the surface of his pale skin. He reached down to tug Ian’s shirt over his head, desperate to feel Ian’s skin rubbing against his own.

" _Fuck, Ian_.” He growled, choking out the name, heady with the lust swimming through his veins.

Ian deepened his bites to rough, almost painful assaults as he continued his journey down to Mickey’s clavicle. Mickey's trailed his hands across Ian’s bare back, digging his stubby nails into Ian's shoulders, pushing him down.

 _Down_ , so Ian circled Mickey’s nipples with his tongue. _Down_ , over Mickey’s tensing stomach, reaching his belly button where Ian paused to rim it gently with his tongue. _Down, down, down_ , as Mickey pushed Ian’s head towards his now painfully hard cock.

“Wait,” Ian muttered in urgent frustration, as Mickey grappled at the stiff material of Ian’s pants, trying to drag them off without dislodging Ian’s head.

With a growl of impatience, Mickey flipped Ian over again, so Ian was underneath him on the carpet. Mickey bit and sucked his way down Ian’s chest, groaning as he lightly punctured the skin and replicated Ian’s own motions from seconds before. He reached Ian’s tenting dick and grasped it firmly in his hand, pushing it towards Ian’s stomach for better access. Mickey looked up at him, blind arousal blurring his vision, and almost came at the lust reflected back in Ian’s own eyes.

 _Hold it together_ , Mickey told himself, biting down on the inside of his cheek to quell the wave of euphoria building in his gut.

“Mine.” He growled out loud, and then he lowered his head, licking Ian from base to the pink tip, already moist with a pearly white drop of pre-come. _Holy shit_ , Mickey thought frantically, as he trailed back down Ian’s shaft to begin his journey again. Sucking dick was his new favorite thing. Ian fisted his hands desperately in Mickey’s hair as he moved up and down, agonizingly slowly.

“Fucking tease,” Ian choked out, as he bucked involuntarily beneath Mickey. The lapping pace Mickey was keeping was sure bordered on painful, and he could hear Ian panting above him.

“Stop! Mickey, fuck-“ He yanked hard on Mickey’s hair, breathing shakily, and holding him at arm’s length. “Gimme a fucking second.” He mumbled breathlessly.

Mickey grinned at him seductively, proudly, dropping his head back down stubbornly to lap his warm tongue at the tip of Ian’s dick. Ian jerked away violently, rolling Mickey over on to his back so he was lying on top of him.

“I said stop, you asshole.” Ian snarled, uncharacteristically vicious, his frustration making him angry. Mickey bit his lip, trying to hold back an amused grin as Ian glared at him.

Ian reached over to the sofa, feeling underneath it for the bottle he knew was there. They kept lube stashed all over the condo in discreet places, having been caught without too many times. He opened the container and squeezed a generous amount onto his fingers, watching Mickey stare up at him in anticipation as he lazily lathered it between his digits.

“Fucking get on with it, Gallagher.” Mickey demanded him throatily. Ian didn’t answer, keeping fiery eye contact with Mickey as he shifted down his body, nudging open his legs and kneeling between them. He slid a slick hand over Mickey’s ready cock, squeezing firmly.

“Think you’re funny?” Ian asked him as he skimmed past his shaft, palming his balls firmly. The smug smirk faded from Mickey’s face as he jerked his cock under Ian’s hand at the contact. “A real fucking comedian.” He circled Mickey’s tight ass with his fingers, making him whimper desperately.

Mickey lifted himself in response to Ian’s touch, all traces of amusement gone from his face. Ian nudged the entrance to his ass with the tip of one slick finger and Mickey moaned brokenly.

Ian’s groan was louder than Mickey’s when he finally pushed a long finger inside him, and Mickey felt his muscles clamp around the intrusion. Ian’s dick twitched impatiently against Mickey’s leg as he followed the first digit with a second. Mickey arched towards him and whined, low and deep in the back of his throat. He focused on his breathing to stay the orgasm threatening to burst at the edge of his arousal. In, out - _oh fuck_ \- in, out, in, and _shitshitshit_ -

 _I’m fucking ready_ , he thought in frustrated, hazy arousal, as Ian thrust a third finger inside at Mickey’s needy rocking, stretching him wide open.

Mickey was keening now, his face contorting as he gripped Ian’s muscled arms desperately. How did Ian have so much fucking restraint? Mickey was mindless with need.

“Please…fuck-” Mickey hissed harshly, and Ian raised his head to look at him.

"Please?" Ian repeated, mocking him. "Please this?" He slid his fingers in and out faster, deeper. "Or...this?" He whispered the word over the smooth skin of Mickey's hard dick, as he took him in his mouth quickly, sliding down the hard shaft once, then pulling his head back up and looking at his boyfriend, immobilized on the floor. "Which is it Mickey?" He stilled his fingers, then hardened his tone. "Fucking tell me."

"Fuck! Both, anything!” Mickey groaned in response, actually fucking shouted, then hissed; “You fucking dick.”

Ian growled in response, pushing his fingers even deeper into Mickey, swallowing him down at the same time. After a minute he pulled his mouth off Mickey’s throbbing dick completely, focusing his attention on the twisting and flexing of his fingers inside of his ass. Then, when Mickey felt the pearly drop of white precum squeezing out of the head of his cock once more, Ian slipped his fingers out, and bent his head to take Mickey in his mouth again, Ian’s own arousal pulsing insistently at Mickey’s thigh.

The constant switch between stimulations had Mickey writhing and moaning mindlessly, desperate for release. It was too much and not enough all at once, as it always was with Ian. His mouth was warm and wet, contrasting so completely with the firm, slick fingers working him open. The growing fire in Mickey’s belly had him straining desperately at the long, thick fingers inside of him, and he frantically tried to twist away from the redhead.

"Shit! Fuck, wait-" He moaned desperately. “I’m gonna fucking come.”

Ian paused, finally, in his movement, and Mickey almost sobbed in simultaneous relief and disappointment when he pulled out his flexing fingers. Ian squeezed more lube into his hand, smoothing it over his cock and moving closer to Mickey, nudging the entrance to his ass with the tip of his arousal.

Ian paused, moments before entering him, and they stared at each other feverishly. Even in the foggy haze of their lust, connection surged between them as they held each others gaze for a long beat. _Almost_. Mickey strained towards him in a desperate attempt to make contact. Then, _finally_ , Ian slammed into the writhing boy beneath him, sending them both hurtling towards ecstasy.

 

* * *

 

Ian lay with his head on Mickey’s chest, staring out of the open window at the countless stars peppering the night sky. They had never been able to see them in Chicago, too much fucking smog and pollution.

Night here in Maine almost felt like a different planet, because of the millions of bright, white dots twinkling in the blackness. Sometimes he and Mickey played idiotic games as they lay there in bed at night, tracing out shapes and patterns in the stars; trying to convince the other there was the outline of a gun, or a dog, or a dildo, or something equally ridiculous. Not tonight. Mickey was already breathing steadily, lost in the deepest cycle of sleep, and Ian tilted his head up to look at his boyfriend, listening to Mickey’s heart banging rhythmically in his chest.

Tonight, with Mickey, the world and it’s worries had faded away. It always did, when they were alone together. Mickey was his balm, his medicine, the one thing that always rebalanced him when the world shifted slightly out of focus. He remembered that now, and shifted closer to Mickey. The movement stirred him slightly from sleep, and in his slumber Mickey tightened his arms around Ian, pulling the redhead even closer.

Ian wanted to wake him, to tell him the million thoughts running around his head about the unease in his gut, but he knew he wouldn’t. He had been able to push away his worry when lost in the all-consuming arousal that overwhelmed him when he and Mickey fucked, but now… What would he say, anyway? Something doesn’t feel right, but I’m not sure what? I’ve got a weird feeling about something at work, or maybe not at work, or maybe yes at work, or maybe - _fuck_! It was so stupid.

Ian nuzzled his head deeper into Mickey’s chest and deliberately filled his thoughts with his boyfriend. _Mickey_. The grip of his hand on the small of Ian’s back. His steady exhalations ruffling Ian’s hair. The heat of his firm, stocky body pressed against Ian’s long limbs.

Finally, slowly, with the steady thump of Mickey’s heartbeat lulling him to rest, Ian closed his eyes and slept.

 

 

* * *

 

 


	4. The Tour

* * *

 

Ian paced around his small office, rubbing his hands together nervously. It was almost noon, and Officer White was due to appear with the potential benefactor any minute. His stomach grumbled and he placed his hand on it to quiet the noise.

 _I should have fucking eaten something_ , Ian thought sourly. He hadn’t been able to stomach the toast Mickey had browned up that morning. _Burned, more like_ , Ian smiled faintly, then the frown reappeared. The smell alone had made him nauseous, and his belly gave a disconcerting twist again now at the memory of it. In retrospect the three cups of coffee he had downed in its stead had not been the best of ideas either; he was so pepped up he was actually fucking buzzing.

The chair behind his desk creaked noisily as Ian sat down in it, spun in a dizzying circle, then repeated it’s shrill squeak when Ian bounced back up a second later. He yawned loudly, the hours of lost sleep while he analysed the apprehension in his gut the night before were taking their toll. Ian still hadn’t figured out the root of his unease, but the momentum of the morning had allowed him to put it at bay, at least temporarily. It was back now though. _Dammit_. He resumed his nervous pacing, drifting his fingers distractedly over his orderly desk, the bookshelves stuffed with training manuals, and the high back of his old leather chair.

 _Fuck_ , he wished Mickey was there to calm his nerves.

Ian knew his boyfriend was not traditionally the hand-holding type. He wouldn’t give the reassuring pep talk and tight hug Ian would have gotten from Fiona or Debs, but the quick, rough fuck Mickey would have offered in its place would have worked even better to relieve his tension. Ian stilled for a moment at the mental image of Mickey bent over the edge of his desk, perfect white ass held high in the air in front of him, ready for the taking. He shook his head quickly, grimacing at the instantly stiffening bulge in his pants.

 _Think about something else_ , he told himself roughly, _Anything else_. The last thing he needed was to greet his guests with a hard-on in his pants, on top of everything else. Okay, so no fucking. In the absence of physical contact, how would Mickey reassu- _ah_. Ian grinned. He’d fall back on some of that trash talk he was famous for. What would he say to Ian, if he could see him now?

“Fucking pussy.” Ian mumbled under his breath with a half smile, in answer to his own silent question. Mickey would tell him to pull his shit together.

He rolled his shoulders back and bounced on the balls of his feet, like he was a prize fighter getting ready for a big fight. _I must look like a fucking idiot_ , he laughed to himself. There was a sharp rap at his door, and the amusement faded quickly from his face as he took a slow, nervous breath.

Ian walked deliberately to the door like a condemned man facing his executioner, and leaned down to twist the handle.

 

* * *

 

Mickey yawned noisily and cracked his back with a satisfied groan.

“That one was a fucking killer.” He mumbled to Max as she entered their small office at the back of the shop. She leaned over his shoulder and peered at the polaroid on the table in front of him.

“Not bad, kid,” she acknowledged, taking in the image of the colorful phoenix swirling over a man’s left shoulder. Mickey had finished tattooing it onto one of his regulars a half an hour before.

“Three fucking sessions with that douche, and all I get is a ’not bad’ from you?”

He stood, pushing the rickety wooden chair out behind him, and grabbed a piece of tape to fix the picture up on the wall in front him. It had been bare white when they first moved into the shop a year before. Now it was a disorganized maze of completed tattoos they had snapped shots of at the end of every job. Birds, dragons, scripture, maps, faces, names, symbols; a collection so varied there was no rhyme or reason to it. It was a shrine to just how fucking far he had come. Mickey would never admit it, but it made him proud as shit.

“Whaddaya want, a fucking medal?” Max huffed as she pulled a cigarette out of the packet jammed into the left breast pocket of her faded baggy jean shirt. “Not my fault the idiot is running out of places on his body to color up. You know he’s just gonna keep on coming back until you go out for a fucking drink with him.”

Mickey rolled his eyes in response, and Max offered him a cigarette. They lit up in companionable silence, leaning against opposite walls of the office as the air between them turned hazy with smoke. After a moment Max shifted, raising her eyes to Mickey.

“What was up with Red last night? Seemed a little out of it.”

For a moment Mickey was thrown, pulled back into the memory of Ian slamming into his ass like his life depended on it the night before. His cock twitched as he remembered how Ian had grazed his prostate and sent him spiraling downwards. Mickey reached up distractedly to scratch at the deepest purple welt Ian had sucked into his skin, just concealed by the collar of his shirt that he had seen in the bathroom mirror that morning.

Max cleared her throat, dragging him out of his trance.

“Uh- you mean in the bar?” He asked after a minute.

“Yes in the fucking bar, where else would I mean? Stupid ass.”

Mickey grinned and licked his lips. As much as Max loved to play the tough as balls act, it was moments like this that let him know just how much he and Ian meant to her. In Mickey’s opinion, the fact that she would die before she actually admitted it only added to her charm.

“Nah, man, he’s good. I mean-“ Mickey paused, then frowned. It hit him then how he’d never actually found out what was bothering Ian, that his boyfriend’s fucking _grinding_ had distracted Mickey before he got any answers.

“Shit,” he cursed, half under his breath. “I don’t know, something at work, I guess.” It certainly wasn’t a problem with _them_. Not if last night’s little performance had anything to say about it.

Max appraised him slowly, then nodded her head.

“If you say so.” She acknowledged through a mouthful of smoke. The bell tinkled over the door in the shop behind them, and she pushed herself off the wall with a resentful huff. “Here we fucking go again.”

She disappeared through the curtain they had strung haphazardly in the doorway separating the office from the rest of the tattoo parlor, and Mickey moved back over to the chair, sinking into it thoughtfully. He reached into the back pocket of his jeans and pulled out his cell phone, tapping out the digits that he knew by heart.

 

* * *

 

Ian glanced down at the buzzing phone on his desk. _Mickey_. He reached over and silenced the call, returning his attention to the two men standing across from him.

“I explained to Mr. Harris that you would be showing him the training rooms, obstacle course, and the facility at large, as well as expanding on the rudimentary information I already gave him on exactly how the ROTC works here at the University of Maine.” His commanding officer explained, concluding his spiel of the last few minutes. “Ian here will do a much better job of explaining how fundamental a role the ROTC can play in a young man’s life. In fact he's been in the ROTC system since he was 14 years old, back in Chicago. Isn’t that right, Officer Gallagher?”

Ian straightened his back at the direct address, and nodded pleasantly at the two men. This was going better than he had expected, the queasy tumbling in his stomach having finally settled from earlier. It had spun into overdrive when he had pulled open the door to his office twenty minutes before, half expecting the grim reaper to be standing on the other side.

Instead, Ian had found Officer White standing next to a tall, well-built man who cleared the top of Ian’s head by a good three inches. James Harris had gripped his hand in a firm shake at their introduction, and smiled at him cordially enough as Ian appraised him silently.

He was handsome, with a tanned face, steely grey eyes and an angular nose that fit his sharp, tidy appearance. His hair had clearly once been black, but was now threaded with silver and grey hues, slicked back with too much gel. _It suited him_ , Ian acknowledged briefly as he tried to guess his age. 55? 60? He was terrible with numbers. A flawless, expensive looking navy suit and well-shined brown leather shoes completed the package. Certainly not the Lucifer he had been expecting.

 _Fucking idiot_ , Ian chastised himself now with an imperceptible shake of his head. _All that fucking worrying for nothing_. Harris hadn’t said much so far, but his few words had been well-spoken and amiable.

“It will be my pleasure.” Ian said out loud, and saluted his commanding officer as White turned to leave.

“You’re in good hands.” The officer said to their guest, then raised his eyebrows at Ian. “Please bring Mr. Harris to my office when you have finished the tour.” Ian nodded.

“Thank you, Officer White.” Mr. Harris said, shaking the officer’s hand. “And please, both of you, call me James.”

White nodded in acceptance, and Ian smiled a formal acknowledgement. _That would never fucking happen_. The ROTC was all about ranking and respect, and it was clear from White’s introduction of this potential benefactor that Ian was expected to treat him as his superior in both regards.

 _No fucking problem_ ; he didn’t need to make this guy his new best buddy. All Ian needed was to pry some of that cold, hard cash he obviously had stuffed somewhere in his Armani suit free for the department.

As White exited the room, Ian turned back towards his desk, reaching for his uniform jacket.

“We’ll begin with the training room, and then move outside to the yard. The cadets will be conducting their morning exercises, so you will be able to see many of our daily operations in action.” Ian explained to Mr. Harris. _James_.

As he leaned over to slip his cell phone in his top drawer, he heard his office door close behind him with a soft click. Ian half-lifted his head in confusion, to see the older man out of the corner of his eye, approaching him slowly.

“Mr. Harris?” Ian asked questioningly, then froze when he felt a large hand run up the small of his back to the crook of his neck, palming the bare skin at the nape of his neck.

“ _James_.” The deep voice corrected him playfully, low and husky in his ear. Ian found himself being pushed back into the corner of his office, and he stumbled, disoriented by the unexpected contact.

“Wha-” Ian winced as his back made contact with the wall behind him, Harris’s arms keeping him caged in position. He was too stunned to react as Harris shushed him with a finger to his lips.

“I don’t think there’ll be any need for the tour. Everything I’m interested in seeing is right here in this room,” The older man’s voice rumbled deep and close in Ian’s ear, and dread puckered goosebumps on his skin.

“Hello, _Curtis_."

 

 

* * *

 


	5. Three Nights

* * *

 

Ian blinked in shock, confusion freezing him in place.

_What the fuck?_ It took him a second, but the feel of the older man pushing his head to the side and pressing his mouth wetly to Ian’s neck clicked him into action, adrenaline surging through his veins.

“Get the fuck off me!” He hissed, shoving hard at James’s chest and twisting out of his grip. All pretense at formality had gone to shit the second he had heard the long forgotten alias from his dancing days. _Curtis_. Ian used the man’s momentary unbalance to clear the space between them, pushing fully away from the hands grasping at him and pacing to the other side of his desk. Ian ran a shaking hand through his hair and cleared his throat, straightening his spine.

“I think you have me mistaken for somebody else.” He said stiffly. “My name is Ian. Officer Ian Gallagher.” He corrected, staring stonily at the man across the room. James cocked his head, looking him up and down with a suggestive smirk on his face, unfazed by Ian’s rejection.

“Oh, I don’t think so.” James smirked, approaching him slowly again, hands held up in front of him in a conciliatory gesture. “I know exactly who you are. And it’s not _Ian_.” He said the name with exaggerated slowness, his voice dripping with sarcasm. Ian stepped backwards away from him, back hitting the wall behind him. _Shit_ , this office was too fucking small. A football field would be too fucking small if he was alone with this asshole on it.

“I’m sorry,” Ian tried again, keeping his voice as steady as he could. “I don’t know how you think you know me, but I can assure you my name is not Curtis. I don’t even know anyone named Curtis.”

“Maybe not now.” James hummed in response, keeping up his steady advancement towards him. Ian kept moving too, and they began circling his desk slowly. He felt like a damn mouse, only instead of a cat this man approaching him with the glint in his predatory eyes was a fucking tiger. “But it was once.”

_Fucking enough_. Ian stopped backing up. What the fuck was he doing? He wasn’t some scared little kid dammit. He was a man. A fucking officer. He could sure as shit hold his own against this geriatric asshole. He turned suddenly, striding menacingly towards the older man, gripping a hand to his neck and shoving him against the wall.

“Ooooh,” James hummed at the aggressive contact, delighted. Ian moved his face close, staring threateningly into the grey eyes looking excitedly back at him.

“Listen here, you piece of shit.” He hissed angrily, rage replacing the fear he had felt moments before and tightening the grip around James’s neck. “I don’t know who the fuck you think you are, but I know who I am; Ian. Fucking. Gallagher. Not Curtis, or whatever fucking name you’ve been wet dreaming about for years. The only thing I am to you is a training officer at the ROTC here at the University of Maine, ready to give you a fucking tour of our facility. That’s it. You’d better back the fuck off before I report you to my superior officer for sexual harassment.”

Ian released his hold on the man, and James took a deep, gasping breath, rubbing deliberately at his sore neck.

“Now,” Ian continued in a steady tone, turning toward the door "if you’d like to follow me-”

Ian grunted in surprise as his legs were swept out from underneath him, crashing to the ground with a strangled gasp. James dropped on top of him, knees painfully jammed into his chest pinning him against the floor. His forearm pressed roughly against Ian’s windpipe effectively stopping any air from traveling to his lungs. Ian looked up, trying to focus through bleary eyes, at the steely glare boring into him. All traces of amusement were gone from the older man’s face.

“Listen here, you little shit,” James hissed, spitting venomously into Ian’s face with every word. Ian wanted to throw up. “I know exactly who you fucking are. Remember Ned? Ned Lishman? Good buddy of mine, back in Chicago. Used to brag about his little fucking firecracker from the South Side. Went by Curtis in the clubs.” Ian’s eyes widened in recognition but he couldn’t speak, the arm pressed against his throat prohibiting any response. James laughed, a steely edge to his tone. “Yes, you know what I’m talking about now, don’t you?”

He shifted his weight and Ian used the opportunity to twist his head, gasping in a desperate rush of oxygen to his empty lungs as spots danced in front of his eyes.

“What do you want?” He croaked out painfully, then the arm was back to his throat, and he was silenced again.

“What do I want?” A cruel smile twisted James’s features, and Ian closed his eyes. How had he thought this fucker was _handsome_ minutes ago? He was _repulsive_.

“I want you, you little shit. All those stories Ned told, Jesus. I sucked up every fucking detail about your sweet, young body and exactly how you used it…” He slid a hand down to Ian’s crotch momentarily, and Ian jerked as far away from the contact as he could, trying not to let the bile rise in his throat. He would choke to death on his own vomit if he let the nausea take over. James slid his groping hand back up to Ian’s face, caressing his cheek almost lovingly. Ian wasn’t sure which was worse.

“They kept me awake for months, those stories he told about you. So vivid. He has a way with words, our Ned. So many details; it almost felt like I was the one fucking you.” James smiled softly.

"And then you disappeared. Ned kicked you out. It took weeks, but I found you again, dancing that tight body away night after night at The Fairy Tale. Know how many dollars I shoved into those shiny little shorts of yours? About as many as the nights I spent jerking off into my fucking sheets thinking about you.” He shoves his face even closer, snarling viciously. “I was going to close the deal, you little shit, and then you disappeared again.”

Ian’s eyes were rolling back in his head as he flitted in and out of consciousness, the oxygen deprivation causing momentary blackouts as he desperately tried to focus on James’s words.

Ian _knew_ him? He’d seen him before? He scrambled through his hazy memories of that time, grasping limply at a vague memory of a tall man in a business suit hunched over the bar, watching him dance night after night. It was possible. It could have been James, but then again it could have been any number of the nameless perverts he shook his ass towards for the dollar bills they had stuffed into his shorts. He’d been so damn high through those months he’d barely remembered his own name.

“But wha-“ He gasped painfully. James continued as if he had never spoken.

“I had finally fucked you out of my system with a hundred nobodys willing to share their pretty little asses with me for the night, you know? And then I was transferred here, to Maine, for a temporary appointment. What are the chances? And I saw you, Ian. Getting on the bus in your shiny ROTC uniform. It all fucking came back. All of Ned’s stories. All those nights I watched you shaking your ass with a promise you never fucking delivered on. And it made me mad as hell.” James shifted his weight again, and Ian winced as his knees pressed painfully into his ribs.

The older man laughed and the sound sent a sickening shiver down Ian’s spine. This guy was fucking _insane_.

“I’m not normally like this, you know?” James said in a lighter tone, almost conversationally. “I’m an important man with important friends. Military, political, financial; you name it. I have plenty of money! I don’t usually need to resort to these sort of-“ He quirked his mouth distastefully as he looked down at the red-faced boy struggling underneath him. “Tactics. I am used to getting what I want. But you are just being so unreasonable.” He leaned back and looked around the room disinterestedly.

“So, here’s what I propose,” James continued lightly. “I’m here for a month. In that time, you will come and spend three nights with me in my hotel.” He winked, and the gesture was so out of place in the context of the moment that Ian almost laughed hysterically. “One night for every year I have been waiting for your pretty little ass. I think it’s only fair.” _This was so unreal_ , Ian thought dazedly. Was it really happening?

“What do you say?” James cocked his head pleasantly at Ian, waiting for his response. When none came, he chuckled and smiled apologetically. “Of course, I’m terribly sorry.” He pulled his arm away from Ian’s throat. Ian gasped for air desperately, heaving painfully as his lungs filled with oxygen.

“No…fucking…way…” Ian choked out, the second he gathered enough air to speak. James shook his head disappointedly, then ran a hand gently through Ian’s red hair almost tenderly, before gripping the short waves at the top of his head, yanking his head back violently until Ian was looking at the wall behind him. Ian grimaced at the shooting pains emanating through his skull. James leaned his head back down, all pleasantness gone from his tone once more.

“Oh dear,” He said, in a voice as cold and hard as steel. “I was hoping it wouldn’t come to this, but if you insist." He licked a flat tongue up the side of Ian’s cheek, and Ian shuddered away from him. His head was swirling and he couldn’t hold the vomit at bay much longer. “Here is my new proposal, and this is non-negotiable. You _will_ come to my room, for three nights. More, maybe, if you don’t make up for lost time to my…satisfaction. If you do, I will make a sizable donation to your department that will keep your little ROTC gig here going for the next five years or more.”

Ian struggled to shake his head, feeling strands of hair being yanked painfully from his scalp by the man’s iron grip.

“You will do this,” James concluded evenly, “because if you do not, I will destroy this department. I have contacts in this university that could shut down the ROTC here, at least for the rest of this year. Long enough to screw everybody over: your cadets, your colleagues, and you.” He smiled grimly. “And I will tell everybody about your colorful past as a dancing hooker.” He watched as the panic flitted across Ian’s eyes, and smiled calculatingly. “Yes, that’s what I figured. They know that you’re crazy, hell, it only took two phone calls to find out you’re fucking bi-polar. Stole a baby, right?”

“Long…time…ago…” Ian forced out through gritted teeth, coming back to consciousness long enough to respond.

“Whatever. Doubt they know the full extent of your little adventures on the South Side up here in Maine. Doubt they would be willing to keep you on their roster if they did. It would be such a shame if I was forced to tell them.” James said, almost wistfully.

The two men stared at each other, James’s face a mask of smug steel, Ian’s eyes filled with rage.

“You fucking bastard.” Ian hissed, just as a sharp rap at the door broke their tense battle of wills.

James sprung to his feet, straightening his suit calmly. Ian clutched at his throat, heaving in lungfuls of oxygen in painful rasps. The knock at the door sounded again, and James answered it, opening it far enough for him to stand blocking the outsider’s view into the room so Ian was concealed.

“Is there a problem, Mr. Harris?” Ian heard his commanding officer’s voice ask through the hazy fog surrounding him. “I see you haven’t begun the tour yet."

“No problem at all,” James returned smoothly. “Officer Gallagher here was doing a wonderful job detailing the day-to-day operations of the facility for me, and we were just about to begin. Unfortunately I’ve been called away on urgent business.”

“Oh dear.” The disappointment in Officer White’s voice was evident. “What a shame. Would you like to re-schedule your visit?”

James glanced over his shoulder to where Ian was still lying on the floor. Ian was trying to move his limbs, fighting to lift his head, but every part of his body felt like it was weighted down with lead. All he could do was stare numbly at the asshole who had just detonated an atomic bomb in his damn life.

“Absolutely. I was just finalizing the details with Ian here. I will be back in two weeks for a full tour. I’m looking forward to it; I find your facility very intriguing.” Ian could hear the smile in his voice and he shuddered involuntarily. “I think we will do great things together, Officer White.”

“Wonderful,” The officer replied in hearty relief. “I’m glad to hear it. Ian is one of our best trainers, I knew he would make you feel welcome.”

James looked over his shoulder one more time at Ian, fixing him with a hard stare.

“ _So very welcome_ ,” He muttered, before turning back to Ian’s commanding officer. “Now, White, would you be kind enough to show me to my car?”

James clicked the door shut behind him and Ian listened to the two men’s retreating footsteps as their voices echoed pleasantries down the hall. Finally, the buzzing of his phone broke his trance.

Ian finally managed to push himself up stiffly, and moved around his desk to sink down heavily into his chair. He pulled his phone out of the drawer he had dropped it into what seemed like a lifetime ago. It was Mickey calling again. _Mickey...Mickey..._ He let the phone slip through his fingers and crash on to the carpet by his feet.

Ian stared blindly in front of him for a full minute, then dropped his head heavily into his hands.

 

* * *

 


	6. Twisted Sheets

* * *

 

“Hey!” Mickey called to the sound of Ian slamming the front door of the condo. “You’re back, fucking _finally_. I got pizza. You want?”

Mickey pulled his feet off the coffee table and shifted over on the couch to make room for his boyfriend. “It’s cold as shit by now but we can put it in the microwave.”

No answer. He listened hard, hearing the sounds of Ian kicking off his shoes and climbing the stairs.

“Nah.” Ian’s voice echoed down distantly from the second floor. “I’m gonna take a shower.”

 _That was weird_. A second later he heard the rushing of water, and the pipes began their noisy, banging symphony as the hot water coursed through them. _Very fucking weird._

Ian hadn’t called him back all day, acknowledging Mickey’s attempts at communication only with a brief _‘Meetings. Busy’_ text mid-afternoon. And now this. No greeting, no kiss hello. _Not that I give a fuck_ , Mickey thought sourly. But he did- this wasn’t like Ian.

Mickey had been thinking about Ian since that morning; his distance the night before, his reluctance to talk about his day... and the more he thought about the way the night had panned out, the more Mickey realized Ian had used sex to distract him. Not that he minded the sex itself; their fucking was, as always, mind blowing. But he didn’t like to be used. Didn’t like that his boyfriend had played on their intimacy as a tool. Didn’t like it, because it _wasn’t like Ian_.

Mickey put the rest of his slice of pizza down on the paper plate, sliding it on to the coffee table in front of him. He wiped the back of his hand over his greasy mouth and pushed himself up off the couch, following Ian up the stairs.

As he pushed his way into the steamy bathroom, he tripped over the pile of clothes Ian had stripped off in the doorway, leaving a messy trail stretching to the entrance of the shower.

“Fuck, Ian.” He muttered, as he righted himself. He pulled back the shower curtain to see Ian standing in the tub, forehead resting against the white tiles as the water streamed over his naked body.

“Shit!” Ian jumped in shock. “You scared the crap outta me, Mick.”

Mickey appraised him slowly. Hot as fucking hell, as always, Ian's taut, freckled body flushed pink with the steamy water, but the look in his eyes was flat and tired. Mickey cocked his head.

“The fuck is going on with you?” Mickey asked slowly, biting the corner of his lip as he waited for Ian’s answer. Ian averted his eyes, leaning over to grab the soap as he began lathering under his pits.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about.” He mumbled after a minute, busying himself with spreading the suds over his chest. Mickey cleared his throat and waited. After a minute Ian looked up defensively. “What?”

“Don’t fucking ‘what’ me. You were weird as shit in the bar last night, and don’t think I didn’t figure out that your little _grinding_ trick when we got home was meant to distract me.”

For a moment Ian grinned, and Mickey felt the weight on his shoulders begin to lift.

“Worked, didn’t it?” Ian smirked, then the smile dropped from his face and he turned away again, putting the soap down and reaching for the shampoo. Mickey’s heart dropped with Ian’s expression.

“Ian,” Mickey reached out a hand to grip Ian’s damp shoulder, and his boyfriend flinched, actually fucking _flinched_ , away from him. Mickey raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Are you fucking kidding me?” He asked in disbelief.

“I’m tired, Mick.” Ian said flatly, turning to Mickey but not meeting his eyes. “Can we save this fucking therapy session until the morning?”

Mickey licked his lips and squinted at his boyfriend, bemused by the coldness in his words.

“Really?” He responded, losing patience with Ian’s roadblocks. “Fine. Fuck you,” he bit out. Ian’s cool denial of Mickey’s overtures hurt more than he’d like to admit, and he turned to leave, pausing at the last minute in the doorway. _No_. They didn’t run from this shit anymore. He turned back to Ian slowly.

“No, actually, it can’t fucking wait. What the hell is wrong with you?”

Mickey watched as Ian’s shoulders slumped, and he closed his eyes as the suds ran out of his hair, over the smooth bumps of his nose and chin, and down his freckled chest. Mickey stood impatiently, arms folded. He wasn’t going fucking anywhere. When the water finally began to run clear, Ian opened his eyes and looked at Mickey directly for the first time.

“Back the fuck off, Milkovich.” He growled. Mickey was so staggered by the words he physically stepped backwards. That was not what he had been expecting.

“What?”

“I said,” Ian ground out, turning off the water and stepping out of the shower. “Back. The. Fuck. Off. Jesus, Mickey, you’re like a dog with a fucking bone. Do you not hear me when I speak?” He grabbed a towel from the rack on the side and wrapped it around his waist, before leaning in to speak loudly in Mickey’s ear, enunciating every word sarcastically. “I am fine. I just don’t want to be around _you_.”

Mickey blinked. _What the fuck was this_? This wasn’t Ian.

He shoved Ian backwards, out of his space. If it was anyone else he would have followed the shove with a punch to the face, and man- if he had ever wanted to knock Ian out cold, it was fucking now. He was burning with rage and confusion at the venom in Ian’s tone, his rejection a piercing blow to Mickey’s fragile ego. He pursed his lips angrily. This is how Ian wanted it? _Fucking fine_.

“Fuck you.” Mickey repeated, the biting anger in his voice now reflecting Ian’s. “You don’t want to be around me? Fine. You fucking asshole. I’m sleeping on the couch.” He turned and strode into the bedroom they shared, grabbing the comforter off the bed and dragging it down the stairs behind him.

“Mickey…” Ian slowly trailed after him a minute later, quiet repentance in his tone. “I’m sorry.”

Mickey stopped halfway down the stairs and turned to look up at Ian, naked and wet apart from the towel slung loosely around his waist. Mickey sighed, rubbing his forehead tiredly.

“You gonna fucking tell me what’s going on?”

Ian paused for a moment, his flushed cheeks paleing under Mickey’s scrutiny. He seemed to be wavering, weighing something up, and Mickey waited, eyebrows raised. Finally, Ian shook his head silently.

“Fuck you.” Mickey repeated for the third time. He flicked off the stairwell light leaving Ian in darkness, as he pulled the comforter around the corner towards the living room.

 

* * *

Ian lay in bed, sheets twisted around his legs, as he shifted uncomfortably. _What time was it?_ He glanced at the clock face glowing red in the darkness of the bedroom. 3:48 am. _Fucking perfect._

He was so damn tired, even his bones ached. Why couldn’t he sleep? The bed felt huge without Mickey, but the thought of lying next to anybody, even Mickey, made him dizzy. He reached up to rub a hand at his sore neck. Ian was surprised there wasn’t a bright, purple bruising line marking the tender flesh there. He felt like he’d been fucking branded.

Ian shuddered as the memory of James’s spitting mouth leaning over him that afternoon crept into his exhausted brain. He flipped over on to his stomach, punching the pillow under his head angrily as he tried to get comfortable. _What the fuck was he going to do?_

Every possible scenario had run through his head since their meeting that afternoon. He had tried to carry on with his afternoon schedule at first, tried to pull himself together, but it had been useless. He was distracted, and his stomach wouldn’t stop fucking turning. After an hour he cancelled his classes and packed up his shit, telling his colleagues he must have eaten something bad for lunch and was going home.

The next bus leaving the university had been heading to the park. Ian bought a ticket and rode it blindly until it reached it’s destination. He disembarked to spend the next few hours wandering aimlessly through the weaving, shadowy paths amongst the trees, not noticing when heavy clouds rolled in, blocking out the sun and splattering fat raindrops on the ground around him.

Should he go to White? What if he didn’t believe him? Or what if he wanted to know what Harris was blackmailing him with? Maybe he should try to handle it himself... But with violence? Strategy? Or… maybe he should just do it. _It_. It was only three nights. He’d done worse, after all, during those months of drugs, and dancing, and who the fuck knows what else. He was almost glad he didn’t remember most of them. The possibilities swirled around his head in an endless tirade.

Finally, his mind turned to Mickey. Mickey, who would believe him in a second, and do everything in his power to destroy anyone who threatened Ian. It took all the meager strength he had not to pick up the phone and dial his boyfriend’s number, but he didn’t. He needed to get his head around it first. 

Mickey would fucking kill Harris. Maybe literally. No matter how much he had changed in the past year of their togetherness, and in his years of solitude before that, he was still a Milkovich. That was how Milkoviches solved their problems, and as much as Ian would have loved to see Harris lying bloody and beaten on the floor, it wasn’t Mickey’s job to do it.

Besides, what good would Mickey whaling on Harris do? Ian could do that himself… but Harris would still withdraw his promise of funding for the department. He would be more hell bent than ever on destroying the ROTC. And he wouldn’t hesitate to drag the whole fucking disaster of Ian’s past out into the open.

As a bonus to that scenario, the fragile peace he and Mickey lived every day would be ruined. It would be tarnished by the past they left back in Chicago, and had defiantly ignored with every happy day they spent together up here in Maine. Mickey would be back to his old, defensive ways, Ian would be shadowed by the shitty choices of his past, and their clean, fucking _good_ , life together would be sullied once more.

 _No_.

Ian could not let that happen.

He listened to Mickey’s heavy breathing through the floorboards, and he almost fucking wept, he felt so damn angry. Angry at Harris, that fucker, for turning his world upside down. Angry at Mickey for pushing, and letting Ian push back, and push him away. Mostly he was angry at himself, for letting himself be in this situation in the first place.

He grabbed Mickey’s pillow and replaced his own with it under his head, so the smell of Mickey filled his senses. Stale cigarette smoke, old beer, and the musky, unmistakeable scent of _him_ underneath all the others.

As he lay still in the silence, Ian tried to will himself to sleep. Instead, his heart picked up pace and his breathing quickened. _What the fuck was he doing?_ He asked himself, as his thoughts tumbled around and around, keeping steady pace with the beat of Mickey’s breathing from the floor below him.

This was serious, he needed Mickey. As hard as it would be going to him with this, it would be even harder to face it alone. _Of course_. He had known that all along, really. It was the only answer.

Ian slowly pushed himself up from the mattress and placed his feet on the floor. His mind raced as he tried to decide how to open this conversation he was dreading, and he put one heavy foot in front of the other as he walked along the hallway, down the stairs and into the living room.

He studied Mickey sleeping soundly when he rounded the corner. He looked so young and peaceful, his face relaxed and free of tension, dark hair spread messily over the arm of the sofa. _I shouldn’t wake him_ , Ian thought quickly, but it was dread talking, not logic. He turned to leave anyway, and a floorboard creaked under his foot. Ian froze as he heard Mickey’s breath stutter, and he looked up to see Mickey blinking bleary eyes open at him from under the pile of blankets on the couch.

“Ian?” He asked in a voice hoarse with sleep.

“Mickey,” Ian dropped his shoulders resignedly and sucked in a deep breath. “We need to talk.”

 

* * *

 


	7. Paper Walls

* * *

 

“Are you fucking _kidding_ me?”

Mickey looked up from his position on the couch, where he was sitting hunched over, elbows resting on his spread knees. A forgotten cigarette dangled from his fingers, the ashes falling in grey streaks over the comforter pushed to one side next to him.

“Seriously, is this a fucking joke?” Mickey repeated disbelievingly. He had heard every word Ian had choked out over the last fifteen minutes, his insides curdling with each syllable his boyfriend uttered from the ottoman opposite him.

Ian shook his head dumbly, exhausted with the effort of repeating the story of Harris’s visit to his office that afternoon. He had told Mickey every repulsive detail, excruciating as it was, while Mickey sat silently across from him, lighting cigarette after cigarette as he listened to him talk.

“You’ve gotta be…” Mickey broke off, standing abruptly. He dropped his cigarette in the ashtray beside him and pulled on the sneakers lying on the floor next to the sofa. Ian lifted his head, startled by Mickey’s sudden movement.

“What are you doing?” He asked shakily, watching Mickey straighten and look around him aggressively.

“What the fuck do you think I’m doing? I’m going to beat the shit out of that fucking pervert.” Mickey hissed, blind fury coating his words. He stalked into the kitchen and began opening and closing drawers as he spoke. “Where did we put that fucking gun? I know I brought one with-“

“No,” Ian stood as quickly as Mickey had moments earlier, holding out his hands in front of him and walking towards his boyfriend.

“Relax, will ya? I’m not going to kill the asshole. Unless you’d be okay with that?” Mickey raised his head and looked at Ian hopefully. The overwhelming tidal wave of rage in his gut paused at sight of the pale face looking back at him.

“Mickey, _no_. No. I don’t want you to do this.” Ian said in a shaky voice, and Mickey cocked his head, walking towards Ian slowly.

“Ian, I don’t think you understand.” Mickey felt like he was on fire, every nerve ending sizzling with hatred and violent animosity towards this asshole who had touched Ian. He was blind with rage, almost fucking _shaking_ with the need to put his hands on this fucking _Harris_ , his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides as he spoke. He forced his voice into a steady monotone; it was either that or scream. "He fucked with you. You’re _mine_. So now I’m gonna fuck with him. That’s how it w-“

“ _No_.” Ian interrupted again, more forcefully this time.

“Ian-“

“No! Jesus, Mickey! Why the fuck do you think I wasn’t going to tell you?” Ian asked in exasperation, exhaustion threading through his words. Mickey took a step back. He felt like Ian had just punched him in the gut.

“You weren’t going to fucking _tell_ me?” He asked Ian incredulously, pacing towards him, furiously now. Ian backed into the living room as he approached, and Mickey flinched at his withdrawal. He knew he was being unfair, knew he was misdirecting his rage at Harris in Ian’s direction, but he felt like he was losing his mind. “You weren’t going to fucking tell me? What the fuck Ian!” His voice rose to a shout on the last word, and he slammed his fist into the wall next to him.

_Shit_ , that fucking hurt. Either these walls were built of something thicker than the paper his Southside home had been made of, or he was getting soft.

“Fuck!” He grimaced, cradling his hand. Ian approached him, a look of concern on his face. Mickey waved him away. “I’m fine, I’m fucking fine.” He hissed, taking a deep breath.

Ian retreated, sinking down on to the couch and resting his head between his knees.

“Don’t you think I’ve thought about how good it would feel to kick the shit out of him?” Ian mumbled tiredly, raising his head slowly to look at Mickey. “It won’t help, Mick. He’ll still withdraw funding for the department. He’ll still share my past as a fucking drugged-up, dancing hooker with the entire-“

“Don’t talk about yourself like that,” Mickey interrupted angrily, but his words were softer now, and he moved over to the couch slowly, sinking down next to Ian. He took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to calm his pounding heart. “I’m sorry,” He bit out after a minute, speaking in a slow, deliberate tone. “Fuck. Just- are you okay? _Shit_. Tell me you’re okay.”

That should have been his first response, Mickey realized belatedly, shaking his head at his idiocy.

“I’m fine.” Ian replied sarcastically with a dry laugh. “Never fucking better.” He paused. “What the fuck do you think Mickey? Of course I’m not fucking okay. Jesus.”

They sat in silence for a minute, both of them breathing deeply, until Mickey reached for the pack of cigarettes on the coffee table in front of them, lighting two and passing one to Ian.

“So you’re saying I can’t kill this douchebag?” He muttered resentfully after a minute. Ian choked out a broken laugh.

“Sorry,” he said through a mouthful of smoke. “Got the wall pretty good, though.”

“Think the wall won that one, actually,” Mickey mumbled balefully, examining his injured hand. He let out a deep sigh and turned to Ian.

“What are we gonna do, Mick?” Ian looked at him, and the tough shell around Mickey’s heart cracked, as it always did with Ian. The break was almost audible. “What the fuck are we going to do?”

 

* * *

 

Ian woke to the smell of coffee and cigarettes, and rubbed his bleary eyes. He was huddled up on the corner of the couch, where he and Mickey had fallen asleep hours earlier, limbs tangled together. He was sore as fuck, and his muscles felt achy and bruised as he stretched them out slowly on the length of the cushions.

“You’re awake,” said Mickey as he rounded the sofa, two cups of coffee in his hands. He handed one to Ian and leaned over to graze a kiss on the top of Ian’s messy red hair.

“Barely,” Ian replied, taking a sip of the steaming liquid. They hadn’t spoken much, after the initial revelation, Ian exhausted by the day’s events, Mickey still simmering quietly and trying to keep his anger from boiling over. He was struggling with it, Ian could tell. His fists kept clenching and unclenching by his sides as they had sat quietly together, but he hadn’t said another word, and Ian was grateful. Telling Mickey had been hard enough, he didn’t have the energy to block Mickey a second time if he decided to go chasing Harris down.

“I’ve been thinking,” Mickey began slowly, and Ian raised his eyebrows.

“That’s dangerous.”

“Har-fucking-har,” Mickey replied sardonically, and sat next to Ian on the sofa. Ian pulled his legs up from behind Mickey and shifted his body to plant his feet on the floor. “I think you should tell your boss.”

Ian turned to him in surprise, this logical, unemotional plan the last suggestion he expected to hear from his boyfriend.

“You want me to go to White?” He asked Mickey, forcing his tone to remain neutral.

“Unless you’ve reconsidered me beating this asshole to a pulp.” Mickey returned quickly, hope lifting his voice once more. “I found the gun while you were sleeping and-”

“No.” Ian shut him down quickly. That was the last thing he wanted. “Still a firm no.” Mickey shrugged, his disappointment evident.

“Well, then, yes. You’re sure as hell not going through with this bullshit, and I can’t see any other way of shutting this Harris dick down. I’ll go with you, if you want.” He offered, taking a sip of his coffee.

“That’s…” Ian’s heart swelled with something other than panic for the first time in 24 hours. “Thank you.” He squared his shoulders. “But no, I can do this.”

He placed his coffee on the table and stood, cracking his back noisily in the process. Mickey copied his movements then hooked his fingers into the elastic of Ian’s boxers, pulling him close.

“You’re going now?” Mickey questioned, wrapping his arms around Ian.

“May as well get this shit over with.” Ian mumbled into his neck. “Don’t know what the hell I’m going to say to him, but I’ll figure it out.”

“How about; ‘this rich douchebag will only give us money if I suck his dick, and as I’m not,” Mickey pulled back and looked Ian in the eyes intently. “And have _never been_ , a fucking prostitute, how about you and I and the rest of the fucking army turn every Colt 9mm we can find on his perverted, wrinkled ass before the day is over?’ I think that could work.”

Ian laughed and pulled Mickey close again, pressing his full length against the shorter boy’s muscled frame. The stirring of arousal at the contact had an immediate stiffening effect in his shorts, and he grinned in relief. _Not fucking broken, then_.

“Something along those lines could work,” He agreed. “Might change the wording just a little, Mick.”

They stood for a moment, reveling in their closeness, before Mickey mumbled something low and quiet in his ear.

“What?” Ian asked with a frown.

“I said, I’m glad you told me.” Mickey repeated, a little more clearly. “We’ve got to figure this shit out together, man. We’ll always figure it out, whatever it is. But you gotta tell me, Ian. No more of this secretive bullshit, alright? That doesn’t fucking work for us.”

_Us_. Ian nodded, the relief at Mickey’s words filling him with strength, reminding him who he was. He wasn’t some pussy, browbeaten innocent in a world of wolves, like he had panicked himself into thinking under Harris’s violent and nauseating hands yesterday. He was Ian fucking _Gallagher_ from the Southside, who didn’t take shit from anyone.

He gripped the back of Mickey’s head firmly, tilting his head up and bringing their lips together. He pressed Mickey’s mouth open and licked his way inside his warmth, exploring his mouth deeply with his tongue. Instantly Mickey hardened against his stomach, and Ian hummed with arousal. Definitely not fucking broken.

Ian broke away after a minute, heart pounding, both of them panting.

“Sure you have to go right now?” Mickey groaned, running his hands up Ian’s muscled chest under his t-shirt, then back down, pushing his fingers inside Ian’s boxers and gripping his ass firmly. Ian grinned and shoved him away.

“Right now,” He confirmed, and smacked Mickey’s ass playfully. “I’ll be back for you later.”

“Better be,” Mickey called up the stairs to Ian’s retreating back. Ian headed into the bedroom to dress, a bounce in his step he hadn’t expected to return so soon. He grinned at the obvious sounds of Mickey jerking off in the living room below him.

He could handle this. _They_ could handle this. Together.

 

* * *

 


	8. Black Heart

* * *

 

Mickey swiped at the air in front of him angrily as a pen hit him squarely on the side of the head.

“What the _fuck_ , Max?”

Mickey was sitting perched on his stool in the back room of the tattoo parlor, staring blindly in front of him as he ran through last night’s events and this morning’s conversation with Ian over and over again. His heart had been lurching between fury and concern as he pictured Ian now, heading into the ROTC to talk to his boss about that asshole.

_I should have gone with him_ , he thought angrily, _I should have fucking made him let me come. Fuck_. And then the damn marker had thwacked him on the edge of his temple and he’d looked up to see Max standing on the other side of the desk with her arms crossed, staring at him balefully.

“8:30.” Max said sourly, reaching into her pocket for her cigarettes.

“What?”

“8:30- you arrived. I thought, ‘oh great, the kid’s here early for once. Maybe his lazy ass will actually get some shit done after yesterday’s waste of a day.’ But nooo.” She put a cigarette to her lips and lit it, inhaling deeply. “You’ve been sitting there like a damn zombie since you walked in the door. What the fuck is going on with you, kid?”

Mickey shook his head slowly. Part of him wanted to leave the shop closed for the day, spend the hours until Ian called him chain-smoking cigarettes with Max and telling her _exactly_ what was fucking up. Hell, she might given him some advice. Smattered between the curses and insults, Max had been known to deliver some pretty fucking sage guidance once in a blue moon. But no. Milkoviches didn’t share, and he had a feeling Ian wouldn’t exactly be overjoyed at him baring his damn soul about fucking Harris and his bullshit blackmail, even to Max.

“Nothing,” he mumbled instead, not meeting her eyes. Max sighed heavily.

“Well, I’m not running a damn daycare here, kid. Get your shit together or go the fuck home and come back tomorrow, I don’t want to be staring at your mopey ass all day.” She huffed, turning to leave.

“Max, wait,” he blurted out, rubbing at his eyes tiredly as she paused in her step, and walked slowly back into the office. He shifted in his seat and turned to look at her. “Have you ever… did you, I mean- fuck,” He shook his head again stiffly. “Did someone ever try to get you do some shit you didn’t wanna do?” _No, that’s not the right question_. “I mean, have you ever been in a situation you didn’t wanna be in, but you weren’t sure how to get out of it?” _Fuck. Still not right._

Max eyed him steadily, blowing a plume of smoke in his direction as she considered her response.

“You okay, kid?” She asked him directly after a moment. Mickey gave a stiff nod and dropped his gaze. “Is it Red?”

Mickey shrugged his shoulders roughly, his eyes drifting over to the photographs of tattoos papering the wall in front of him. The compass tattoo he had etched on to Ian’s ribcage months ago caught his eye and he stared at it blankly. Max sighed again, and pulled up a stool next to him.

“Did I ever tell you I had a kid?” Mickey looked up at her, so startled he almost fell off his stool. _Max had a kid?_

“I think I’d fucking remember that,” He bit out in response. Another fucking surprise. _Perfect_. “Where is it?”

“He.” Max corrected him, her tone softer than he ever remembered her using before. She cleared her throat and continued roughly. “It was a boy.” She glanced around the room swiftly and Mickey stared at her. _Was she crying_? He thought in panic. He didn’t have it in him to deal with that shit today, not with Ian clouding his thoughts at every fucking turn. Max turned back to him and his shoulders sagged in relief. Not crying. _Thank fuck_.

“I was young, kid. My parents made me give him up.” Mickey snorted involuntarily, then straightened his face as Max glared at him. _Not an appropriate reaction, dumbass_ , he chastised himself quickly.

“Sorry, it’s just the thought of anyone making you do anything is…” he trailed off, shrugging his shoulders apologetically.

“I wasn’t always the tough bitch I am now, idiot. I was a kid once, too.” Max huffed, then her expression hardened. “Didn’t listen though. Ran off to the city at nine months fucking pregnant. Twenty bucks in my pocket and an idiotic plan to raise the damn kid away from my dick parents. Boy, was I ever fucking stupid.” She laughed gruffly. “A week of sleeping under bridges, and keeping my pregnant belly away from the other homeless schmucks who wanted to touch me at every turn like I was about to give birth to the Messiah was enough to send me running back home, tail between my damn legs.”

Mickey appraised her steadily as she lit a second cigarette from the tip of her first, discarding the nub carelessly in the ashtray at her side. The constant anxiety he had been feeling about Ian since his revelation the night before was momentarily forgotten.

“So I screamed bloody murder through sixteen hours of labor, then handed the kid over to my parents. Never even got to hold him.”

“What did they do with him?”

“Adopted. Nice family who already had a coupla’ kids but hadn’t been able to push out a third. Greedy bastards.” She rocked back in the stool and smiled at his shocked expression blandly. “Whatever, kid. It was a long fucking time ago. I wasn’t the first, and I sure as shit wasn’t the last.” She stubbed out her half-smoked cigarette and stood, stretching her limbs with a grunt and pushing her sleeves up her arms.

“Fuck.” Mickey blanched. “That fucking sucks.” The meager offering fell far short of what he should offer in terms of comfort, but he was at a loss.

"My point is, running away wasn’t the right decision, but neither was listening to those assholes. I had options. I just didn’t know what they were.” Max leaned over towards Mickey and looked at him intently. “I don’t know what’s going on with you, kid, but you know when something’s right, and you know when it’s fucking wrong. Listen to your gut. Don’t walk away from something you should be running towards with everything you’ve got. Some things are worth fighting for, when you know they’re right.”

Mickey leaned forward, elbows on the desk, nodding slowly. His eyes refocused on the picture of the compass tattoo, on the glimpse of Ian’s freckled skin surrounding it. Max cleared her throat.

“Either way, we’ve got a fucking shop to run. You ready to pull your head out your ass, or what?”

“Or what?” Mickey responded cheekily, a smirk lifting the corners of his mouth. Max rolled her eyes and leaned over, reaching for the pen to throw at him again.

“Alright, alright,” he said quickly, standing and turning to follow her into the shop. “I’m fucking coming.”

 

* * *

 

Ian took a deep breath and rapped sharply on Officer White’s door at exactly nine a.m. His superior officer appreciated punctuality; enough stories of his impatient temper had circulated amongst the cadets and trainers over the years for everybody at the ROTC to know White did not like to be kept waiting.

Ian had emailed him on his bus ride over that morning requesting the early meeting, when he was still high on the adrenalin surge from Mickey’s confidence. _Best to start things off on the right foot_ , he thought to himself nervously, glancing at his watch while he waited for a reply. This conversation was not going to be easy.

At White’s command, Ian entered the office and saluted him sharply in greeting, his body buzzing with apprehension.

“At ease, Gallagher,” White greeted him warmly, a welcoming smile on his normally straight face. Ian was pretty sure it wouldn’t be there for long.

The buoyancy from his and Mickey’s exchange had carried Ian confidently to the bus stop, on his ride over to the university, and into his walk through the campus. It was only in this moment that his surety had begun to falter. Ian desperately tried to recall the reassuring grin Mickey had given him at their parting.

“Harris was very pleased with your meeting yesterday, Gallagher. Well done. I actually received a call from him this morning. He was able to shorten the length of his other obligations and hopes to return to us by the end of the week.” White began, leaning back in his chair and gesturing for Ian to sit in the seat opposite him.

“Actually, sir, that’s what I came to talk to you about.” Ian interjected quickly, settling into the leather chair. Harris was coming back in a couple of days? Thank fuck he’d talked to Mickey after all. He threaded his fingers together nervously, tapping his foot on the floor in a receptive motion that sent tremors through his body. The motion was strangely comforting, and he was so fucking nervous he needed every damn comfort he could get.

_Should’ve taken Mickey up on his offer to come_ , he thought distractedly, but he didn’t mean it. Mickey’s presence would have given him momentary confidence, sure, but big picture? Mickey and military life did not mix. He would be wandering around White’s office, looking at all his war medals and pushing for the gory details of how he’d earned them, if he were there.

“Yes?” White questioned, finishing a bottle of water and throwing it neatly into the garbage can in the corner of the room.

“Nice shot,” Ian smiled, then squared his shoulders, the tight grin dropping from his face. “Yesterday, after you left my office, Mr Harris made certain… overtures to me, that I wasn’t entirely comfortable with.” White frowned and leaned forward in his chair, resting his forearms on his desk.

“Be more specific, Gallagher.”

“He informed me that he had been aware of me in Chicago, sir, and was interested in pursuing a relationship with me.” Ian took a deep breath and continued. “He said he would be willing to provide funding for the department only if I were to agree to…perform intimate acts with him.”

_Silence_.

Ian flushed, and forced himself to meet White’s bland stare. This was excrutiating. “For three nights, to be specific, sir. At his hotel.”

_More silence._

“Officer White?”

White cleared his throat, his expression unreadable.

“Go on.”

“That’s it, Sir. Clearly that is not a reasonable request, so I came to you. I mean, that’s an unacceptable option. Obviously…” Ian trailed off, cheeks flushing.

_Why wasn’t he saying anything_? He hadn’t been expecting the rage born of territorial frustration that Mickey had shown, but he had been expecting… _something_. Disbelief, perhaps. An indignant dismissal then calculated plan of action. Anything. Not this deafening silence. Maybe he should have let Mickey come. He would have had no trouble filling this awkward silence. Ian forced himself to remain quiet as he waited for his superior officer’s response.

“So, you are telling me that Mr Harris will only provide fiscal support to this department if you consent to spend some time with him…privately.” White said finally, in a quiet, steady voice.

“Yes sir.” Ian replied, keeping his expression neutral. This was harder than he had anticipated.

“And you’re sure that was his meaning?”

“Quite sure, Sir.” _Hell fucking yes_.

“I highly doubt-“

“There was no doubt,” Ian interrupted, panic that he may not be believed making him forget the required formality. “Respectfully, Sir.” He tacked on hastily.

White leaned back in his chair again for a long moment, licking his lips slowly, He trailed his hand over the display case of medals on his desk, stopping when his fingers skimmed his Purple Heart. He picked up the award deliberately, turning it over in his hand.

“Do you know what this is, Gallagher?” He asked musingly, looking down at the medal in his hand.

“Yes sir.” Ian repeated steadily. _Where was he going with this_? “It’s your Purple Heart. A great honor.”

“Mhmm,” White replied, then smiled wistfully. “A great honor. And do you know why I was awarded this particular medal?” He leaned forward in his chair again, staring at Ian intently.

“The purple heart is awarded when you’re wounded in combat operations Sir.” Ian replied automatically, shifting in his seat. He was losing patience with this trip down memory lane, fighting the urge to slam his hands on White’s desk and scream “ _What are we gonna do about that fucker_?” in his face.

White tapped his right arm, just above the elbow.

“Still got two bullets lodged in there, Gallagher. Hurt like a mother whenever the temperature drops below 50 degrees.” He was talking conversationally, as if Ian hadn’t just told him that a potential benefactor would only donate to the department if Ian agreed to fuck him. Maybe he didn’t understand?

“I’m sorry to hear that, Sir.” Ian cleared his throat. “Now about Mr Ha-“

“What people don’t understand,” White continued, as if Ian hadn’t spoken, “Is that this medal isn’t any different to any of the others, not really. They all represent _sacrifice_ , Gallagher. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Ian shook his head, brow furrowed. He had no fucking idea.

“I’ve fought more battles back on my homeland than I ever did out there on the field.” White continued musingly. “Fighting for the expansion of the department, new equipment, scholarships, publicity, and, of course, funding. It’s different, obviously, not as important in a lot of ways, but still about sacrifice, at the end of the day.” White stood, resting the palms of his hands on the desk in front of him, and looked at Ian intently.

“Sir?” Ian asked. His head was starting to throb, fury boiling in his gut, and his heart was pounding so fucking loudly he was sure his superior officer could hear it. _Surely he wasn't saying_ …

“This is your chance to earn that Purple Heart, Ian.” _Ian_? “We need that funding, boy. The department is in a tough spot. The numbers Harris has brought to the table could keep us going for the next five years or more. They’re substantial.” Ian stood suddenly, shock at White’s words erasing all pretension of formality. He echoed Mickey’s words from the night before.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

White straightened too, bringing himself to full height, an inch above Ian across the desk.

“Do you see me laughing, Gallagher?” White retorted angrily, his cool mask slipping momentarily. “Sacrifice is what we do. It’s what the army is all about. You don’t see your family for months on end, maybe years; _sacrifice_. You hold your dying brothers in your arms in a field in the middle of some Godforsaken country; _sacrifice_. You kill innocent people for the good of hundreds more; _sacrifice_. I don’t think closing your eyes pretending you’re somewhere else for a few hours out of your whole damn life to save an entire department is asking too much in comparison, do you?”

Ian stood frozen in anger, shell-shocked at the onslaught of fury in his superior officer’s voice. White paused, then slowly lowered himself back into the chair behind his desk.

“So just to be clear, Sir,” Ian bit out coldly, “you are saying that you want me to do this. You want me to prostitute myself and fuck this asshole, just to add a couple of zeros to the ROTC’s bank balance.”

White smiled balefully, shaking his head.

“More than a couple, Gallagher. And I’m not saying any such thing,” He returned in a calm, steady voice. “As far as I’m concerned this conversation never happened. All I’m saying, is that if we do not receive this funding from the good Mr Harris, unfortunately the department will fall a little short of its fundraising goals this quarter, and cuts may have to be made.”

Ian nodded slowly. He understood exactly what White was implying. _You fucking asshole_ , he thought viciously, the pounding of his heart echoing loudly in his ears.

“All I’m saying, Gallagher,” he repeated stonily, “is that sacrifice comes in all shapes and forms. The question is whether or not you have it in you to be the hero, or if others are to sacrifice instead, for your cowardice."

Ian stared at White in silence, as the world roared around him. 

 

* * *

 


	9. Do/Don't

* * *

 

Mickey grunted in frustration as the key stuck in the tattoo parlor's lock for the hundredth time. He just wanted to get home.

“Not in the mood for this shit,” he muttered under his breath as he wrenched it out of the keyhole, almost bending the metal in the process.

 _Gotta get somebody to look at that_ , he thought to himself, also for the hundredth time. Max had left an hour ago to meet some of their buddies at the bar for a drink, but he had rejected the invite, mumbling some half-assed excuse that he can’t even be bothered to remember. The last thing he felt like doing was sit around being fucking chatty with the locals. Besides, alcohol and his current temperament probably wouldn’t mix well, and someone would most likely end up taking an unexpected trip to the emergency room if they so much as looked at Mickey the wrong way.

He wanted to keep a clear head, anyway, for whenever Ian got his fucking ass in gear and told him what the hell had happened with White. If he ever decides to fucking pick up the phone, Mickey thought bitterly. It had been hours, fucking hours, since Ian responded to his ‘ **?** ’ with a text saying ‘ **Done** ’.

 _Done_. What the hell did that mean? Fucking _done_? Mickey was going to kick his freckled ass when he saw him.

“Mickey!” A familiar voice called out to him as he cursed under his breath, fiddling with the key. _Speak of the devil_.

Mickey turned at the shout and squinted into the setting sun to see Ian sauntering down the street, casual as fucking day. He dropped the keys in his pocket and breathed deeply.

 _Stay calm_ , he told himself, closing his eyes for a second. White had probably shut the whole thing down already, and Ian was on too much of a high to give his victorious recitation of events over text. He blinked his eyes back open to see Ian standing in front of him.

“What are you doing here? Where the fuck have you been?” Mickey bit out, trying to stay the anger in his voice. _Hours_.

“Came to see my boyfriend, that a fucking problem?” Ian retorted playfully, hooking his fingers into the belt loops on Mickey’s jeans. He pulled Mickey towards him and began pressing his mouth roughly at Mickey’s jawline. _What the fuck_?

“Hey. Hey!” Mickey protested, pushing him off. “What the fuck are you doing? How did it go with White?” He tried to make eye contact with Ian, put his tattooed fingers under Ian’s chin to tilt the freckled face up to his own. Ian wasn’t having any of it, already pushing into him again, pressing Mickey’s back against the glass door of the shop.

“You got the keys?” Ian mumbled breathlessly, reaching a hand down to palm Mickey through his jeans. Mickey jerked away from him, looking up and down the street swiftly.

“Fucking stop, Ian. Jesus, this is my work,” He grimaced, pulling Ian’s hands forcibly away from his dick. This kid was like a fucking octopus, hands everywhere. He fumbled in his pocket for the key, yanking it out and jamming it back into the stiff lock. “Get the hell inside, man.”

They stumbled into the shop, Ian all over him the minute the door closed behind them, almost frenzied in his attack. He pushed Mickey backwards until the back of his knees hit the chair he had finished tattooing a phoenix onto a girl’s shoulder in an hour earlier, and Mickey fell into the soft leather with a disoriented “oomph.”

Ian was climbing on top of him in a second, tugging up at Mickey’s shirt, yanking at the fastening of his pants, all the while tracing kisses up and down his jawline, trying to fasten his lips to Mickey’s. His body responded as always despite his reluctance, and Ian moaned a satisfied “yesss” against his skin when he felt the stiffening in Mickey’s pants pushing up against his stomach.

“C'mere.” Ian mumbled, finally tugging Mickey’s pants open and slipping his hand inside his boxers. Mickey groaned involuntarily as Ian’s long fingers gripped his cock, and he ground against him for a second, lost in the heat of Ian’s body moving against his own.

 _So fucking good_ … Mickey tangled his fingers in Ian’s hair, finally giving into his searching mouth and meeting his lips with his own as heat surged between them. Ian’s tongue flicked around his mouth as he deepened the kiss, and they wrestled in the tight confines of the chair until they were lying side by side.

"Never fucked in here before,” Ian muttered urgently, tugging at his own pants with his free hand. The words jolted Mickey sharply back to the present, and he opened his eyes, pushing Ian off him.

“And we ain’t gonna fucking start now,” he choked out in response, wrenching Ian’s hand away from his stiff dick. The motion caught Ian unaware, and he fell back into the chair as Mickey scrambled out of it. Mickey tucked himself back into his boxers and held up a hand to ward Ian off as he began his steady approach again.

“No Gallagher. Fuck,” he cursed brusquely, fastening up his jeans. He was so damn hard he could barely get the zipper closed. “What is this? A victory fuck? Tell me what happened with White, man. I’ve been waiting all damn day.”

Ian rolled his eyes and reached into his pocket for a pack of cigarettes, pulling out a smoke and lifting it to his lips before tossing the pack to Mickey.

“You’re so fucking dramatic,” Ian mumbled through the cigarette as he lit it, inhaling deeply. Mickey stared at him, eyebrows raised. He hadn’t seen Ian like this since they left Southside, since the days pre-diagnosis when Ian had been half in this world and half in another, horny as fuck or tired as hell, always a little removed. The detached look in Ian’s eyes had Mickey’s heart twisting nervously.

“What’s going on, Ian?” He asked quietly, thumbing the top of the cigarettes in the open pack, but too distracted to pull one out and light it. Ian exhaled heavily, shrugging his shoulders.

“I told him, like you said-“

“Like _we_ said.” Mickey cut him off. Ian shrugged his shoulders again.

“Sure, sure, like we said. Let’s go into the back room, I haven’t seen your wall of honor in ages, Mick. Bet you’ve got some new shit up there for me to-“

“Ian,” Mickey said warningly. The last thing he wanted to do was go and look at pictures of fucking tattoos. Ian’s shoulders slumped in defeat, and he turned to look at Mickey.

“White wants me to do it.” He said tersely, his whole body emanating a tense defensiveness as he waited for Mickey’s response. Mickey barked out a shocked laugh.

“What?” He snorted, convinced he had misheard. _No way_.

“White. Wants. Me. To. Fuck. Harris.” Ian repeated, punctuating each word with a sharp jerk of his hands. Silence fell over them as Mickey stared at him, trying to process the information. _No_. White was an officer. A decent guy, Ian had always said, he wouldn’t-

“Why?” Mickey blurted out after a minute. His voice echoed around the empty shop and Ian shrugged casually.

“Money, I guess. Says it’s a small sacrifice to save an entire department. Or implied it, anyway.” He looked around the shop for an ashtray, and walked behind Mickey to stub out his cigarette when he spied one on the sticker-covered counter behind him. “Hell, maybe he’s right. I’ve done worse.”

“You’re going to fucking do it?” Mickey choked out incredulously, keeping his eyes trained on Ian as he walked around the shop, trailing his long, pale fingers along the deep magenta walls. Mickey was cemented to the spot, all traces of the heady arousal that had swum through his veins moments before completely forgotten.

“Dunno,” Ian replied lazily, walking over to Mickey and running a hand through his dark hair. “Got until Friday to figure it out. Haven’t decided yet.”

“Haven’t decided?” Mickey echoed dumbly. _Was he fucking kidding_? He brushed off Ian’s hand and stepped away from him. “You. Are. Not. Fucking. That. Douche.” He gestured around with his hand after each word the way Ian had moments earlier. This time it wasn’t a question.

“Whatever man,” Ian responded, wrapping his hands around Mickey’s waist and trying to pull him close. “Where were we-“

“Not fucking _whatever_!” Mickey exclaimed, shoving Ian roughly away from him now.

 _This is a fucking joke, it has to be a joke_ , he thought frantically. “What the hell is wrong with you? We’ve got to figure this shit out.” He looked at Ian intently, registering the glaze that settled over his green eyes as he stumbled backwards.

“Not really,” Ian mumbled nonchalantly, righting himself. ”I’ve got to figure it out. Me.”

“No.”

“Yes,” Ian hissed in response, his calm mask slipping momentarily as Mickey stared at him.

“Don’t start this shit again,” Mickey retorted angrily. “We just talked about this. Don’t fucking do this, Ian.” His heart was pounding in his chest at Ian’s words, at the look in his eyes. _We can’t be here again_ , he thought desperately, hands starting to shake in panic. “I’m not gonna let you just…” He paused and blinked slowly.

“Don’t,” Ian repeated with a soft chuckle. “Do it, don’t do it. Do it, don’t do it.” It was amazing how such little words had so much power over them, even after all this time.

“I’ll figure it out, Mickey,” he said almost pleadingly, his casual tone betrayed by the tremor echoing behind it.

“We’ll figure it out.” Mickey repeated stubbornly, but it was like a shutter had closed over Ian’s eyes, and a barrier Mickey hadn’t felt in over a year began slowly building between them, brick by relentless brick.

“Ian,” he breathed dully. _Please_. If Ian had heard him he showed no sign of acknowledgment.

“It’ll be fine, Mickey, relax.” Ian stated flatly, but his words sounded like they were a million miles away and Mickey was already turning away from him.

“I’m going home.” Mickey said dumbly, walking towards the door. “I can’t do this with you anymore tonight.”

“Nothing to do.” Ian shrugged dismissively, following him closely.

Mickey fumbled with the lock for the second time that night, his fingers much weaker than his earlier attempts. Ian watched him calmly.

“Let me,” he said finally, as he pushed Mickey out of the way and used his long fingers to deftly click the lock into place. “See? Easy.”

Mickey stared at him blankly as Ian offered him the keys, taking them from his outstretched hand and letting them hang limply from his own fingers.

“This is isn’t over.” Mickey said quietly, meeting Ian’s vacant stare with his own. “It’s _not_.”

Ian looked at him, and a bitter half-smile curled the edges of his lips.

“If you say so.”

 

* * *

 


	10. Time's Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry I've been gone so long! Writer's block is the worst of all the worst things, and I was the worse for it- it drove me crazy.
> 
> Back now, and it won't happen again, promise. I will post a second chapter this week to make up for my major slackery.
> 
> Missed ya ;-)

* * *

 

**Wednesday**

Ian jerked awake with a sharp intake of breath, and stretched a hand blindly over the ruffled sheets next to him, fingers searching for Mickey. When he didn’t make contact he pulled open his bleary eyes to glance at the empty side of the bed next to him. Mickey’s side. With no Mickey in it.

 _Shit_.

He groaned when he remembered the night before, his mind running through his visit to the tattoo store. The memory felt like it belonged to somebody else; he hadn’t felt that out of it since before he’d left Chicago. He hadn’t missed the feeling.

Ian had been shell-shocked when he had stormed out of White’s office after their meeting, there was no other word for it. The stable reality he had built for himself at the ROTC felt like it was crashing down around him, foundation rocked to the core. He almost didn’t believe it had happened, except for the neat rows of red, angry half moons he had dug into his palms with his fingernails as he had listened to White spout his bullshit about sacrifice, and bravery, and him fucking a dude for money. He looked at the patterns on his smooth skin now, and winced as he ran a thumb gently over them. Sore. _Fuck_.

The first hour after their meeting he had spent slumped in his office, staring blindly at the four walls around him with no motivation to move. Mickey had texted him repeatedly, single question marks, one after the other. There were so many messages from him Ian could scroll through several screens of individual ‘ **???????** ’ and nothing else. Finally, Ian had replied with a simple ‘ _ **Done**_ ’, just to stop the incessant buzzing of his phone.

Mike had come to his office shortly after that, rapping at the door in a fast, rhythmic beat. He had poked his head into the room without waiting for a reply, frowning when he registered Ian’s limp position behind the desk.

“You okay, man?” Mike asked quietly, slipping in through the door and closing it gently behind him.

Ian had looked at him numbly for a full minute. _What was he supposed to say?_ His tongue felt thick in his mouth, and he couldn’t remember the appropriate words to reply. He shrugged dully, not meeting his eyes as Mike approached his desk.

“We’ve got the rope training session with the new recruits,” Mike reminded him with a frown, cocking his head as he appraised Ian. “Want me to take care of it? You don’t look so good.”

Mike's offer sparked something inside of Ian. _Fury? R_

 _esentment_? Whatever it was, it buzzed through his veins at a frenetic pace, filling Ian with a sudden burst of energy that had him bolting upright out of his chair with a sharp dismissal aimed in Mike’s direction.

“I’m good. Let’s go.”

He hadn’t dwelled on the reason for the sudden surge of adrenalin, running with it down to the gymnasium where he led the group of ten cadets in an excruciating hour and a half of ropes. He demonstrated many of the moves himself, scaling the ropes up to the ceiling to grab the flag strung precariously on top over and over again, far more often than necessary. By the end of the class Mike and the cadets were bent over, sweat dripping down their faces and muscled chests. Ian had barely begun.

 _How dare White suggest that? What the fuck is wrong with him? Is he out of his fucking mind?_ The thoughts looped endlessly in Ian’s mind in a raging torrent which squashed the smaller, more rational voice saying; “ _call Mickey_.” He didn’t. He tore through his day, jogged the eight miles to the tattoo shop, then had that, with Mickey, still buzzing with frantic energy he just couldn’t seem to burn off.

Ian had tried to care as he talked with Mickey, tried to feel the same emotions he vaguely remembered feeling when he first talked with White. He could see Mickey going through the same shock, and anger, and disbelief he was sure he had felt that morning…but he couldn’t access that part of himself. It just didn’t seem like that big of a deal, when he was telling Mickey. _Whatever_. He’d done worse, and not with a theoretical gun held to his head like it was now.

But waking up this morning in a bed that felt huge without Mickey…he felt that. The loss of Mickey’s warmth, their playful banter, more evident than ever in the stillness of dawn. He still couldn’t feel anything more than ambivalence about the whole shit show with White and Harris and the ROTC, but his heart ached with the palpable absence of Mickey.

Ian leaned over to the bedside table and picked up his phone, holding down the number two to speed dial Mickey. His breath quickened as he waited for Mickey to pick up, and he pushed himself further upright in the bed.

“Hello?” Mickey’s voice croaked, finally, on the other end of the line. Ian felt a rush of warmth to his gut at the sound.

“Mickey, it’s me.” Ian replied, his own voice still hoarse with sleep. He cleared his throat and reached for the bottle of water next to the bed, swigging quickly.

“I know it’s you, dumbass,” Mickey sighed down the line. “Other than Max and Mandy you’re the only one who ever fucking calls me, and neither of them would be up at the ass crack of dawn.” Ian listens to Mickey rustling around on the other end of the line. “Shit, Ian, it’s barely 6am. Why the fuck are you waking me up so early?”

“Couldn’t sleep,” Ian shrugged, then realized Mickey couldn’t see him. “It’s weird here without you, Mick. Where are you?”

They had stumbled home together in silence last night, Ian heading straight upstairs and passing out the second his head had hit the pillow. He had no clue what happened to Mickey.

Another sigh, and Ian tensed with apprehension at the sound.

“Yeah, well, me neither. This couch is fucking uncomfortable, man, I’m going to be stiff as fuck tomorrow. Or today, I guess.”

“You’re downstairs?” Ian couldn’t keep the jubilance out of his voice at the realization that Mickey was here, he hadn’t left. Ian hung up the phone without waiting for a reply, and bounded down the stairs of the condo, taking them two at a time. He rounded the corner to see Mickey pushing himself up off the couch, wincing at the noisy clank of empty beer cans as they tumbled to the floor around him.

“Shit Mickey,” Ian snorted at the sight. There were ten, maybe twelve crumpled cans lying around Mickey. “You had a fucking party and I wasn’t invited?”

“Yeah, well, I wasn’t exactly feeling social.” Mickey grunted in reply, bending to pick up the cans by his feet. “Shit, my head.” He rubbed at his temple as he collected the cans, squinting at the early morning light streaming through the gap in the curtains of the living room window.

“Leave them,” Ian replied, walking over and kicking the cans out of the way. He reached his arms around Mickey, pulling him to him, and nestled his face into the crook of Mickey’s neck, inhaling the smell of old cigarettes and stale beer. _Mickey_.

Mickey stood stiffly in his arms, not returning the embrace. _Not pushing me away, either_ , Ian thought victoriously, but then Mickey spoke, throaty voice rumbling low and close in his ear.

“You’ve thought about what I said?” Mickey asked hopefully, letting one hand rest on Ian’s waist.

“Mhmm,” he murmured noncommittally in response. Mickey pulled back slightly, looking at Ian with a wary expression on his face.

“And?”

“Still figuring it out.” Ian shrugged, then winced as Mickey pulled sharply away from him. “Where are you going?”

Mickey strode away from him towards the stairs, face angled in the opposite direction. His voice was gruff and angry when he spoke, and Ian’s shoulders slumped.

“I’m taking a shower. We haven’t got anything to talk about until you get the thought of fucking that asshole off your radar.”

 

* * *

**_9 am_ **

Mickey and Ian sat next to each other on the couch, staring blindly ahead as the silence roared around them.

“If you’d just let me kick his ass-“

“No, Mickey. We’re not doing that shit anymore. It wouldn’t help, anyway.”

* * *

**_11:15 am_ **

The front stoop now in the crisp fall air, sharing a cigarette they passed back and forth between them after each puff.

“What’s the big deal? I’ve fucked worse.”

* * *

_**1:30 pm** _

Over a beer, Mickey’s third, Ian’s first, Mickey pacing in agitated circles around Ian in the living room.

“Maybe you got it wrong. Maybe White meant something else.”

“I didn’t get it wrong, Mickey.”

“Is there someone else we can go to with this shit? Someone higher than White?”

“It’s his department Mickey. There’s no one else.”

* * *

**_5:30 pm_ **

Side by side again on the couch, thighs pressed together from hip to knee, propping each other up in the tornado.

“You’re not fucking doing this, Ian.”

“Don’t worry about it anymore, Mickey. I’ll figure it out.”

“How many fucking times? We, Ian. We’ll figure it out.”

* * *

_**10:45 pm** _

Blue eyes fixed on green. A silent plea.

 _Please_.

“You’re not doing this, Ian. You’re not.” 

* * *

 

**Thursday**

_Alone_.

Mickey listened to the door of the condo slam as Ian exited on his way to his bi-weekly doctor’s appointment, and breathed a sigh of relief. They had been going round in circles for a day and a half, fluctuating between anger and denial. They’d made no progress.

 _What are we going to do_? He had ranted over and over again in his head as Ian shot down his suggestions blankly at every turn. They had collapsed into bed at midnight, limbs tangling together in sleep, their unconscious states craving the closeness they had lost while awake. They awoke to find themselves as exhausted as if they hadn’t closed their eyes at all.

 _Maybe the doctor will talk some sense into him_ , Mickey thought, but it was a fragile hope that he put no real bearing in. Ian wouldn’t tell the doctor, Mickey knew that. He would skirt around the issue, giving vague suggestions of his problem with no real absolutes.

As easy as it would be to pin Ian’s casual disconnection to this situation on his diagnosis, neither of them really thought it was that. It was just hopeless, or so Ian felt, and there was only one solution. Mickey actually agreed with him on that fact. Their differences lay in how acceptable they both felt the solution was.

“No way, no fucking way,” Mickey uttered for the tenth time now, walking over to the wall and pulling his fist back in anger, ready to slam a hole into the crumbling sheetrock. In his mind’s eye he could see how the white walls would look after the violent assault; flaked paint around a crumbling hole, smears of blood at the point of impact. A familiar sight, one he would regret without question once the moment had passed.

At the last second before Mickey thrust his fist forward, his phone pinged with a new message. He dropped his hand with defeated sigh, leaning forward instead to rest his forehead against the cool, smooth wall.

He had really thought they had made it.

Got away from the Southside, his dad, the Gallagher’s, Ian’s diagnosis...even battled through their own shit which had always been the biggest obstacle either of them had faced, ever since Ian had first prodded him in the back with the crowbar all those years before. Run away to fucking Maine to start a new life together away from all the bullshit.

_What a fucking idiot._

The first sign of trouble had their fragile barricades tumbling down. Now Mickey saw with heartbreaking certainty that they had built their new foundation on a floor of brittle hope and false ideals, rather than building on the realities of who they were, regardless of the zip code they were living in. That had been fine, great, even…until now. Until they were forced to face a situation they didn’t want to be in, and Ian ran backwards into himself while Mickey ran forward, looking for the nearest wall to punch. Both in opposite directions.

 _He can’t do it_ , Mickey reasoned blankly. _He can’t_. The thought of Ian actually going through with this made him nauseous. The fact that Ian was even considering it turned his stomach just as much. He would fucking kill fucking Harris before he laid a finger on Ian. He’d kill White, too, while he was at it.

He walked over to his phone and picked it up, checking the messages. Max.

> _You okay, kid? I cancelled your appointments for the rest of the week like you said. What the fuck’s going on?_

Mickey sighed and tapped out a quick reply.

> _Family shit. It’s all good. Be back Monday._

_Monday_. Ian’s first little meet and greet with Harris was scheduled for Friday. By Monday it would all be over, one way or another. Mickey dropped his head into his hands.

It felt like a lifetime away.

 

* * *

 

**Friday**  

Ian stared blankly at the phone vibrating on his desk. _Unknown number_.

He picked it up with shaking fingers, tapping ‘ _Answer_ ’ as he brought it to his ear.

“The Embassy Suites Downtown. Room 509. Be there at seven.”

Ian swallowed at the sound of Harris’s smooth, authoritative voice on the other end of the line, but didn’t answer.

“Curtis, do you understand? Tonight.”

Ian scribbled the information down on a scrap of notepaper next to his computer; _Embassy, downtown, 509_ , and shifted in his office chair so he could shove it into his back pocket.

A heavy, irritated sigh from the other end of the line, and Ian could have sworn he heard the asshole rolling his eyes. The voice was colder when it returned.

“ _Ian_." Harris drawled. "Do you fucking understand me?”

“I understand,” Ian echoed back tonelessly, and dropped his phone to the desk with a noisy clatter.

_Time’s up._

 

* * *

 


	11. Not That

* * *

The sound of the door slamming downstairs roused Mickey from sleep, and he blinked open bleary eyes to see the dusky afternoon sunlight streaming through a gap in the bedroom curtains.

“Mickey?”

Ian’s voice rang out in the silence of the condo, and Mickey lifted his head in response.

“Yeah?” he called back croakily, groaning as his cloudy head began pounding at the noise.

Ian’s footsteps banged up the stairs, and Mickey winced with every step until Ian reached the carpet of the dimly lit bedroom, kicking empty beer cans as he approached Mickey lying on the bed.

“Drinking again?” Ian asked drily, eyebrows raised. He pushed back the comforter and dropped down on to the bed, bending over the side to pull off his shoes.

“What time is it?” Mickey groaned, ignoring the question and sinking his head back on to the pillow. “Shit, what _day_ is it? Please tell me I didn’t sleep through the whole fucking day.”

Ian chuckled softly and glanced at his watch.

“It’s four. Friday afternoon. Still some day left.”

“Thank fuck for that,” Mickey sighed, rubbing at his eyes tiredly. They had been up not-talking until two that morning, when Ian had stumbled up to bed to get some sleep for work the next day. Mickey wasn’t even pretending he was going to attempt normal function come the morning, and spent the remainder of the early hours working through the last case of beer they had left.

“Think we need some more beer,” Mickey mumbled into his hands now as he rubbed at his face. Ian laughed again.

“There’s half a case in the kitchen,” he replied as he lay down on the bed, twisting his body towards Mickey who lay in a lump huddled up under the blankets.

“There was half a case in the kitchen,” Mickey sighed. “Someone fucking drank it all last night.”

“Someone, huh?” Ian asked with a small grin. He propped his head up on his left hand, and used the fingers on his right to rake gently through Mickey’s tangled hair.

“That feels good, man,” Mickey sighed, and for a minute the stress and anxiety of the past week faded away, and all he felt was the comforting scratch of Ian’s fingernails against his scalp.

One blissful minute, when this was a day like any other. He and Ian lying together in their bed, the warmth of their bodies pressed against one another. He let himself forget the fear and the anger lurking at the back of his mind, and focused on this moment, where nothing existed outside of the two of them and this world they created together.

He hummed in pleasure as Ian’s fingers trailed down the side of his face, across the expanse of his chest, and over his belly, slipping under the elastic of his boxers.

When the long fingers reached his dick, Mickey’s eyes flew open.

“What the fuck, man?” he muttered, pushing Ian’s hand away. Ian pressed forward, gripping him more solidly as he began to stroke Mickey’s length with purpose.

“C’mon Mick, it’s been days,” Ian mumbled in response, dropping his head to begin sucking and biting softly at Mickey’s neck.

“It’s been days for a reason,” Mickey replied stiffly, as his cock began to rise in response. _Rebellious fucker_.

He’d missed the sex, _oh God_ , he’d missed the sex, but even more than that he’d missed the closeness. The intimacy. He groaned and tried to wriggle out from underneath Ian.

“Ian,” he grunted warningly.

Ian paused the movement of his hand and the gentle sucking at Mickey’s skin, and raised his head. Even though this separation was what he had been trying to achieve, Mickey almost wept at loss of the fingers wrapped around his stiffening dick. Ian's eyes, lit with the same fire that burned in Mickey’s gut, met Mickey’s. 

“It’s okay, Mickey.”

“What the fuck does that mean?” Mickey retorted, pressing back into the corner of the bed away from Ian to look at him directly. It wasn’t _okay_. Nothing was fucking okay outside of this heated bubble they shared, here in this room.

“It means I’m not gonna do it.” Ian replied calmly, pushing himself upright on the bed and looking down at Mickey. His hand still rested in Mickey’s boxers, and Mickey’s dick gave an involuntary twitch at the friction. _Shit_. Mickey shook his head and focused on Ian’s words.

“You’re not gonna do it?” he asked, a cautious hope creeping into the edge of his voice.

“No.” Ian confirmed, pulling his hand out of Mickey’s boxers. He pushing Mickey’s knees down and climbed on top of him so he straddled the other boy, knees gripping his waist.

“So what are we gonna fucking do?” Mickey asked breathlessly, as Ian began grinding on top of him, ass at Mickey’s crotch. Ian shrugged distractedly, and began raking wide, trailing loops over Mickey’s chest with his nails.

“Not that.”

_Not that_. Five fucking days of helpless, frustrated talks. Holes almost punched in walls. A terrifying distance between them that Mickey hadn’t felt in years and it all boiled down to _not that_?

“Then what?”

“I don’t know man,” Ian admitted quietly. “Talk to someone in a different department maybe. Get in touch with my boss back in Chicago. Write a fucking letter.”

“But-”

“No, Mickey,” Ian interrupted him firmly. “I don’t know what the answer is, but I know what it isn’t. Can’t we just fucking let that be enough for now?”

It shouldn’t be, Mickey knew that, but oh- he was so damn tired.

Ian leaned forward and pressed his lips to Mickey’s, and for a second Mickey lay frozen under the contact. The warmth of Ian’s tongue slipping between his lips broke his stillness, and with a moan Mickey finally opened his mouth in response.

Yes, yes, it was enough for now. Later, the talking would come again. They both needed this release, and Mickey didn’t have the strength to fight it anymore.

He reached up to wrap his arms around Ian’s back, feeling the muscles tense and move through his shirt.

“Clothes,” Mickey instructed throatily against his lips, and Ian broke away to tug his shirt over his head, before dropping his mouth back down to Mickey’s neck as Mickey pressed up into him needily.

Ian sucked a hungry trail of bites down Mickey’s chest and across his stomach, until he was mouthing Mickey roughly through his boxers. Mickey groaned and tangled his fingers in Ian’s hair, pushing him down.

His cock was hard now, pulsing with need, and Mickey could already feel himself leaking through the thin cotton of his underpants.

“Fucking do it already,” he mumbled desperately, pressing up into Ian’s mouth.

Ian laughed lowly in response, then pulled him free of his boxers. He swallowed Mickey deeply in one fluid motion, just as hungry for the contact as Mickey himself.

_Yesfuckyes_ , there it was. Ian sucked thirstily on his cock like he was trying to get the last of the milkshake out the bottom of the damn glass, and Mickey dropped his head back into the pillow with a low moan.

Five days. _Five fucking days_ he had gone without Ian’s mouth wrapped around his dick. The longest drought they had had since their reconciliation over a year before. He whimpered, actually fucking mewled, when Ian pulled his mouth off his dick and began lapping at him in broad, heavy stripes from the base up to the head.

“Lube,” Mickey grunted desperately, reaching over to fumble blindly at the drawer of the bedside table where they kept a stash of the gel. He pulled a tube out and pushed it down to where Ian’s hands braced his weight against the mattress.

“Will you stay fucking still?” Ian muttered in response, just as hard, just as ready. “I’m not gonna fucking last if you keep moving around like that.”

Mickey bit back a sharp retort; no need to piss him off now, and fisted his hands into the sheets to keep himself still as Ian rolled off him, unbuttoning his pants and kicking them off clumsily. Ian was hard, stiffer and more erect maybe even than Mickey himself, and Mickey’s pupils blew wide and black as he hissed out a breath in anticipation of being filled with the dick in front of him.

Ian uncapped the lube with unsteady fingers, and squeezed a thick line on to the palm of his hand, rubbing the gel between his fingers to warm it. He nudged his way in between Mickey’s legs, spreading him on the bed as he lowered his head back down to Mickey’s dick and began licking and sucking thirstily at the head.

_Oh fuck_. Mickey’s eyes rolled back in his skull when he felt the steady press of Ian’s fingertips against his ass, and then with a low moan that vibrated against the smooth flesh of Mickey’s cock, Ian slid one slick finger inside him.

Too much. It was too fucking much. Mickey gasped at the breach, then began rocking down on Ian’s finger as it pushed farther inside him, stretching him open.

“Mickey,” Ian growled again in response, “stay fucking still, man.” But it was a plea that Mickey didn’t register in his heated arousal, and he bucked against the assault, desperate for Ian to fill him completely.

“More,” he hissed through his teeth, and Ian slipped a second finger inside of him, scissoring him open, stretching him as he sucked and lapped at Mickey’s ready cock.

Ian’s eyes were wild as he looked up at Mickey, mouth still anchored on his dick.

“You ready?” Ian mumbled impatiently as he pulled away for a second, and Mickey wanted to scream at the absence of Ian’s hot, wet mouth around his leaking head.

“Fucking yes,” he rasped breathlessly, grappling at Ian’s head to pull him up, up, up towards his mouth.

Ian kept his fingers in Mickey’s ass as he slammed their lips together, and the kiss was a messy, heated battle of lips and tongues and teeth as Ian pushed a third finger inside of him. Mickey whined needily at the intrusion, and he would have been embarrassed at the sound if he had any recognition of it at all.

Instead Mickey kissed Ian back more desperately than ever, gripping his hands around the back of his head, running his hand down Ian’s back, over his ass and around to his dick, gripping him solidly when his fumbling hands found Ian’s rock hard shaft.

“No,” Ian hissed desperately, pulling back, out of his reach, and Mickey glared at him, lost in the heady swell of arousal.

_Mine, mine, fucking mine_ , he would have said, if he’d been able to form words, but then Ian was sliding his slick fingers out from Mickey’s ass and gripping Mickey to him as they rolled over on the mattress.

Ian pulled them roughly up towards the head of the bed, and then he was sitting upright with his back against the wall. He tugged Mickey on to his lap, and wrapped Mickey’s legs around him as Mickey held himself suspended over Ian’s dick.

Ian reached for a condom, tearing it open with his teeth and rolling it down over his thick, aching arousal. Even the friction of his own hand caused a muffled moan to slip out from between his gritted teeth as he slicked himself up with lube.

They were face to face now as they stared at each other hungrily, black eyes fixed on black eyes, panting into each other’s mouths, Mickey’s dick leaking against Ian’s stomach, Ian’s cock nudging at the entrance to Mickey’s ass.

Mickey braced his hands on Ian’s shoulders as Ian cupped his ass and pulled him forward. Mickey bit his lip, and then Ian was pushing up, up, up into him, _oh God_ , and he was sinking down on to Ian’s cock with a deep, guttural moan of pleasure.

 

* * *

 

When Mickey woke for the second time that day, it was with a contented smile on his face.

His head was still pounding a little from the beer of the night before, but it was overshadowed by the deeply satisfying ache of his muscles that he only felt after he had been thoroughly fucked by his boyfriend.

_Ian_. He twisted his head, squinting in the darkness as he searched for him. The sun had set now; they must have fallen asleep after Mickey had finished riding them to the long overdue orgasms they had both been craving. It hadn’t taken long.

“Hey,” Mickey called out into the darkness. No response. He reached out a hand and fumbled blindly with the objects on the beside table, groaning in annoyance when he knocked his phone to the floor with a clatter.

He scooted stiffly across the mattress and hung off the side of the bed, looking down to the illuminated screen that had been activated in the fall. It had landed on Ian’s ROTC uniform pants, lying in a jumbled heap on the floor when he had discarded them hurriedly earlier. _6:48pm_.

_Huh_. Later than he’d thought.

“Ian?” he called again, more loudly this time. Still nothing. Mickey pushed himself awkwardly off the bed, standing naked in the quiet of the bedroom and stretching luxuriously, arms reaching above his head. He felt more peaceful and relaxed than he had in days. He also felt fucking starving.

Mickey wandered through the house naked, flicking on the lights as he went. He headed towards the kitchen, towards food. His mind only half focused on Ian’s absence, convinced he would be lurking downstairs, already feasting on leftover pizza or whatever frozen crap they had in the freezer.

_Mmmm, pizza,_ Mickey thought hungrily. Or maybe Chinese. Takeout seemed like a good idea. _Get our strength back for round two_. A wide, smug smirk stretched across his face at the thought.

When he reached the kitchen to find it empty and dark, the smirk faded to a frown.

“Ian?” he asked again, doubt filling his voice for the first time that night. He hurried through the kitchen, checked the back stoop, peered around the front door, then headed back upstairs to double check the bathroom.

_Maybe I missed him_ , he tried to reassure himself, but unease was spreading through his veins, being pumped through him by a heart suddenly filled with fear. His pace quickened as he took the stairs two at a time.

Ian wasn’t in the bathroom. He wasn’t anywhere in the condo at all. Mickey headed back into the bedroom towards his cellphone, his tread agitated and quick.

_Maybe he went to pick up dinner_ , he told himself, trying to override the quiet voice chanting, _he’s not going to answer_ , over and over again at the back of his mind.

As he bent to pick up his cellphone, a scrap of yellow notepaper sticking out of the back pocket of Ian’s discarded khakis caught his eye. Mickey froze as dread thudded through his heart, and the second his shaking fingers touched the paper, he knew.

> _Embassy, downtown, 509._

The paper dropped from his hands and floated to the ground.

Ian had lied.

 

* * *

 


	12. 509

 

* * *

He lied. He fucking _lied_.

Mickey stormed blindly around the condo, shoving everything he saw of Ian’s into the black garbage bag clutched in his hand.

Dirty socks, _in the bag_. ROTC uniform, _in the bag_. Even Ian’s phone charger was wrenched out of the socket next to the bed and shoved in with the rest of his belongings. All of it. Mickey wanted every last scrap of Ian fucking Gallagher gone from his sight. _The lying piece of shit._

He span around to the dresser and choked out an involuntary sob at the sight of the framed picture of them both propped up against the wall there.

It had been a gift from Mandy, the frame given on Christmas morning, the picture taken on the same day by his sister and added later. They were so casual, so easy in the shot, completely unaware they were being photographed. Both in sweats and raggedy t-shirts, Mickey lounging on the sofa with Ian scissored between his legs, laughing as he handed Mickey a wrapped parcel.

A book, Mickey remembered now, the autobiography of Van fucking Damme. He had never read it, but got the reference the second he opened it, punching Ian in the arm with a laugh when he did. Amazing they could find any joy in a memory so tainted with what followed. Time was a great healer.

 _But it won’t heal this,_ Mickey thought angrily, steadying his shaking hand and grabbing the frame, throwing it into the garbage bag with such force he heard it hit the charger inside and the ominous sound of glass shattering.

The noise jolted him out of his angry trance, and with a heavy exhalation of air he sunk to his knees, gripping the bag to his body. Mickey didn’t cry, but his eyes were wet with unshed tears and his body shook with tremors that originated from deep within his heart.

The betrayal was so immense, so devastating, it left him breathless. He sat on the floor in the dark of the bedroom, huddled around the bag filled with a life that was no longer his.

 

* * *

 

As Ian paced through the streets of Maine, he thought, _I’m sorry_.

It had been selfish, he knew that, to be with Mickey one more time under the blanket of a lie he had known he was telling from before he even uttered the fateful words; “ _Not that_.” He couldn’t help himself, so overwhelmed with his need to be close to Mickey, desperate for the strength he only gained from their togetherness to make it through this unavoidable task he had in front of him now.

It was selfish, cruel, dishonest…but he wouldn’t take it back. If Mickey couldn’t forgive him for what he was about to do, he needed one more memory of their love to sustain him through the dark days ahead. Mickey had given him that gift, or maybe Ian had stolen it, but he still wouldn’t take it back.

Ian checked the directions on his phone one more time, and swung a right. His step was purposeful and focused, and he puffed incessantly on the cigarette that hung from his lips. He wasn’t manic and wasn’t depressed; if anything he felt more in this moment than he had in any other since his diagnosis. Ian just knew, with a devastating certainty, that this was the only answer.

Either way, he had lost Mickey. He saw that now. Their life together had been a beautiful daydream, a glimpse in time when they had convinced themselves that they could be two people that they weren’t. They were two fucked up kids from the South Side, a product of abusive parents and a mess of shitty upbringings, not two balanced, normal people in a healthy relationship. Maybe they could have been, if they’d done this differently. Stayed themselves and worked together to build a new life on an honest foundation of where they were coming from as they had started to when Ian was back in Chicago and Mickey was in Maine.

Instead they had forged onward the second they reconciled, at a pace so recklessly determined to get them away from their past as they could that their love had become baseless and weak, strong only when they were together, running as fast as they could away from the black history of their beginning. This truth had never been more evident than now, when they were faced with an obstacle that they should have overcome together, and couldn’t.

He loved Mickey, _oh God_ he loved Mickey, more than anyone else he had ever loved. And Mickey loved him, too, Ian didn’t doubt that. But they weren’t strong as they should be, because they didn’t know who they were anymore outside of their relationship.

Ian couldn’t save them, but he could save the department. Save his colleagues, his friends, his own job, with this sacrifice that really was so inconsequential when it came down to it because it had no bearing on his life with Mickey. He had separated the two so entirely in his mind that he didn’t even feel guilt about the decision that he felt had been made the second Harris pinned him to the floor of his office a week ago.

Instead he felt a cold detachment, purposefulness, and perhaps even some of that courage bullshit White had spouted two days before. As long as he didn’t think about Mickey, and his heart twisted as the name echoed through his brain, he’d be fine.

He rounded the corner of the dark Maine street, and blinked up at the bright lights of the Embassy Suites in front of him. There was a miniscule pause in his step, and then he was pushing through the revolving door into the warmth of the hotel lobby, and pushing Mickey out of his mind.

 

* * *

 

Mickey lifted his heavy head at the insistent buzzing of the phone in his hand.

For the briefest of seconds he thought; _Ian. It’s Ian calling, this was all a misunderstanding. He’s going to call me a dick, and I’ll call him an asshole, and we’ll laugh at the idiocy of my doubt._

His bleary eyes were too unfocused in the dark of the bedroom to read the display, so he pulled the phone quickly to his ear and clicked ‘Answer’, without checking.

“Ian?” He asked in a croaky voice. _Please let it be you_.

“It’s me, asshole,” his sister’s voice rang down the line, clear and strong. “Ian’s not back from work yet? It’s after seven.”

“Mandy,” He said flatly in response, not bothering to acknowledge her question. He sank back down into his huddled position on the floor.

“Yesss dickbag,” She drawled impatiently, “Don’t sound fucking happy to hear from me or anything.”

Mickey swallowed hard, but didn’t respond. Mandy. _Not Ian_. His brain was thick with disappointment and his chest fought each breath he tried to inhale.

“Mickey?” Mandy asked doubtfully, the certainty in her voice wavering. “Mickey, what’s going on? Are you okay?”

“No.” The truth slipped out from between his lips before he had a chance to contain it, to twist it into the lie he knew he should have given. He was spent.

“No?” She echoed, concern layering her tone. “What do you mean _no_? Is it Ian? Is he sick?”

“No.” He said again, and the denial was true this time, not that it helped. Mickey felt like he was in a fog, disoriented and confused. Nothing was making sense, and he couldn’t gather himself enough to wear the mask of confidence he usually had around his sister.

“Oh thank fuck,” Mandy whispered down the line in response, then her tone hardened. “Tell me what’s going on Mickey. For fuck’s sake, you’re scaring me.”

“We had a fight,” _Stop fucking talking, you asshole_. At least his ability to lie was back. ' _We had a fight'_ was such a weak summary of what was going on between them, it felt like a lie, anyway.

Mandy breathed a sigh of relief at his words, and even released a small laugh as she spoke.

“That’s it? You had a fight?” She said incredulously. “Jesus, Mickey, you scared me. You guys fight all the time, I’m sure you’ll be banging it out by morning.”

“Not this time,” Mickey replied dully, and his tone was so defeated he heard Mandy take a sharp inhalation of breath. He couldn’t bring himself to care, as he looked around the dark bedroom which had held so much joy, so much love, over the past year. It all felt like a lie now, tainted by their last memory of togetherness a few hours before.

Mickey remembered Ian’s hands on his hips, their lips pressed together, their shouts of release, and shuddered. Every touch had been given and taken with Ian knowing what was to come. _The fucking liar_ , he thought again, fierce anger piercing the fog of betrayal for a moment. Then Mandy began speaking, and it was gone again.

“Mickey, you guys fight, it’s what you do,” Mandy said in a voice so consoling and gentle Mickey blinked into the darkness. This was not how they spoke to each other. Somehow her kindness made him feel even more lost. “You fight, you make up, you fuck. It’s the Mickey and Ian show, always has been.”

He shook his head at her words, then uttered a broken “No,” when he realized she couldn’t see him.

“Mickey-”

“It’s over,” he interrupted her, and the devastating truth of the words hit him then. He buckled over with a pain in his gut so violent it was physical, and he keened silently, his body shaking as he clutched the phone to his ear like a lifeline.

“It’s not over,” she said to him, anger at his words causing her tone to rise in agitation. “Are you fucking kidding me? Who the fuck are you? I don’t know what the hell’s going on, Mickey, but I know it’s not over. You douchebags have come too far for this shit.”

Mickey shook his head _no, no_ , at her words; she didn’t understand. How could she possibly understand? He knew the truth, and even he didn’t understand.

When he didn’t speak again, Mandy breathed deeply. This was new territory for them both.

“Mickey,” she began in a tone so calm and certain, it forced it’s way through the grief racking Mickey’s body in silent sobs. “You and I, we don’t have much in this fucking life. We’ve been through so much shit, with Dad, with everything, sometimes I wonder how we made it out alive.” She paused, and Mickey could hear the shakiness in her breath as she inhaled. “But we did. Partly, for me, because I had you. Partly just because we’re fucking Milkoviches, Mickey, and survival is what we do.” Mickey listened as she lit up a cigarette, and pushed himself up off the floor slightly,

“Ian was the first fucking thing in both of our lives that we didn’t have to just _survive_. He was our saving fucking grace, asshole, this lanky ginger from a family almost as fucked up as ours. Somehow he loved us, and somehow you remembered you deserved that shit, somewhere along the way.” She paused, and Mickey could hear a sob in her throat now, as she pushed for something she didn’t even fully understand.

“I don’t know what the fuck is going on with you two, but I know this; Ian is not something you can walk away from. You tried that before, remember? In Chicago? In Indiana? And now you’re in Maine, and for whatever reason you’ve lost sight of the fact that you were making this work. You are happy, Mickey. Ian makes you happy. After all we’ve been through, don’t you think we deserve that?”

Mandy’s tone shifted from pleading to hard at her brother’s silence.

“Stop this pussy shit, Mickey, whatever it is. You’re not walking away from Ian, we both know that. So remember who the fuck you are, Mickey Milkovich, and fucking act like him.”

 

* * *

 

 

503, 505, 507 _…_

 _509_. Ian paused in front of the door, hand held suspended two inches away from the solid wood. He didn’t even have chance to knock before the door was being swung open, and Harris was standing in front of him.

He lounged against the doorframe in his hotel robe looking Ian up and down, and Ian wanted to throw up.

“Ian, so glad you could make it.”

Harris stepped back to make room for him, and with a deep breath, Ian stepped inside.

 

* * *

 


	13. Remembered

 

* * *

 

Ian swallowed back the bile threatening to rise in his throat.

It was surprisingly easy to suppress the urge to vomit, his mind focussed and clear on what lay ahead. Ian stared at the semi naked man lounging casually in the open hotel robe on the bed, body twisted towards him. Harris ran a hand casually through his salt and pepper hair. _He has more wrinkles than I remember_ , Ian thought randomly, then shuddered. _Who the fuck cared?_ Harris hadn’t even touched him yet, and Ian’s skin was already crawling.

“I ordered us some champagne,” Harris said, his voice oily and overconfident. “It’ll be here in a minute. Aren’t you going to sit?” He asked, patting the mattress with raised eyebrows, like they were on a fucking _date_. It was so fucked up, Ian almost wanted to laugh.

“One night,” Ian said coldly, ignoring the invitation. He kept his eyes fixed on the headboard just above Harris’s head. “I’m only doing this for one night.”

“Well, now, that’s not what we agreed, is it?” Harris replied almost teasingly, trailing his fingers over the ruffled sheets next to him. Ian could feel the bile rising in his throat again.

“One,” Ian repeated firmly, holding up a finger and glaring at Harris so contemptuously he wondered if the other man could actually feel the chill of the ice lacing his voice.

“Two,” Harris argued casually, pushing himself up on the bed.

“One,” Ian said again. He looked up at Harris with a heavy lidded gaze, trying to be alluring and feeling like a shadow of himself.

 _No, not a shadow_ , Ian thought hazily. _An echo of who I used to be_. He wished he was drunk or high, anything to remove himself from this reality and help him get through the next few hours. Ian tried to steady himself with a deep breath. “I’ll do anything you want tonight, no arguments. I swear. But just one night.”

Harris cocked his head, taking a long, thoughtful moment to consider the offer. An interested smirk spread across his face and Ian suppressed a shudder.

“ _Anything_ I want?”

“Anything,” Ian confirmed, in a tone that suggested they were discussing dinner options, not settling on the particulars of exactly how they would fuck. “One night where I’ll do anything you want, then you’ll donate your fucking money to the department, and get the hell out of my life.”

“You might not want me to get out of your life after tonight,” Harris smirked, licking his lips. When Ian didn’t respond, Harris sighed wearily, like he was an impatient father disciplining his unruly child. “Fine, fine,” he said dismissively, “One night... but you said anything. If you let me down, the original deal stands. I want to be sure I get my money’s worth.”

“You will,” Ian replied emptily. He should feel victorious; he won, at least in this small battle. Instead he felt like he was being swallowed whole into a past he thought he had left long behind him. Ian stared at Harris for a minute.

 _You fucker_ , Ian thought with a sudden surge of rage, _you’ve ruined it all_. But he didn’t really believe that. He would have ended up here, one way or another, at the mercy of someone or some shitty situation where the truth of his past would cost him his momentary glimpse of joy with Mickey. Ian had to pay for his happiness, he always had to pay.

As a kid, back home on the South Side, when his siblings would finally reach some semblance of stability, Monica would reappear to destroy their fragile calm. Or he’d meet someone, _Mickey_ , and Terry would destroy their chance at joy. Or Ian would battle through the opposition, only to be diagnosed, and have to navigate the stormy waters of medication and acceptance. Or, most frequently, Ian would fuck things up himself, because deep down he fucking knew it would happen eventually, and self-sabotage was the only way he could control his life. If it was all going to go to shit, at least this time he got to choose how.

Ian may not have chosen for this situation to happen, but he had chosen to be with Ned, all those years ago. He was choosing to be here now. That control was the only thing he had to hold onto, and he clutched to it tightly in his mind as he slowly tugged his shirt over his head, and unbuttoned his pants.

 

* * *

 

_"So remember who the fuck you are, Mickey Milkovich, and fucking act like him.”_

Mandy’s words had been echoing through Mickey’s brain for the past hour. _Remember_ , as he had pushed himself up off the floor of the bedroom. _Mickey_ , as he had walked slowly down to the kitchen, pulling out the gun he had finally remembered was stashed under the kitchen sink. _Milkovich_ , as he had pushed his way out of the condo, and sprinted to the L stop down the road.

 _Mickey fucking Milkovich_ , as he had paced into the Embassy Suites, taking the stairs two at a time to the fifth floor.

 

* * *

 

“C’mere,” Harris murmured excitedly, crawling to the edge of the bed and reaching for Ian. Long arms wrapped around Ian’s naked waist, and pulled him on to the mattress, trailing a finger down his chest. Harris dropped his head down and began circling Ian’s nipple with his tongue.

_Not Mickey._

Ian flipped his head to the side, trying not to gag, trying to block the thought from his clouded brain. He blinked up at the headboard behind him, locking his gaze on the hundreds of tiny grains in the wood, following the threads as they looped around each other, merging, twisting, tangling together.

 _Mickey_.

“Wait,” Ian mumbled quietly. _Did he say that out loud?_

“What?” Harris breathed, lust-filled eyes staring down at Ian. “Shhh, relax.” He lowered his head again and began kissing a wet, sloppy path down towards Ian’s navel.

_Not Mickey._

“Wait,” Ian said more firmly now, and he was sure he had spoken aloud that time, his hoarse voice bouncing off the bland, cream walls of the hotel room.

His stomach churned as he lay there, under the lapping tongue of Harris as he lathed at Ian’s skin. He closed his eyes, and saw Mickey’s face laughing up at him as they wrestled in bed in the early morning dawn. Water pooled in his eyes and he blinked quickly, deliberately, trying to clear his vision, but all that did was replace that image with a new one; Mickey sleeping, curled up next to him, Ian looking down to see the black strands of his hair lying in a stark contrast to the pale skin where they fell against Ian’s chest.

_What the fuck am I doing?_

The thought slammed into his brain, choking the air from his lungs as it ricocheted around and around his mind. _Mickey_ , unkempt and aggressive, eyeing him malevolently as he shoved stolen groceries into his basket at the Kash and Grab. _Mickey_ , glaring down at him, tire iron in hand, the anger switching to arousal as they moved together for the first time. Then heartbreak, over and over again; Terry, Svetlana, " _don’t"_ , his diagnosis, Mickey’s departure, his accident, Indiana, Sean, the woods… the images swirled around his brain so fast he felt dizzy, and it was like he was seeing them all clearly for the first time.

Scribbling notes upon notes to Mickey, _I miss you, where the fuck are you_ , day after grey day of life without Mickey, then Terry’s death, Mickey’s return, color, together, then his departure again, and, finally…

 _Maine_. Day after vivid day of reds and blues and greens and yellows, warmth and fighting and laughter and sex. Texts and calls about nothing, both building lives and careers that had actual meaning. Drinking with Max after work, stumbling back with their arms wrapped around each other, back to the home that they loved. Four blank walls they painted each day with fresh joy.

 _So much happiness._  The thought made Ian inhale sharply. Derailed at the first challenge to their togetherness.

It was almost as if they had been looking for a reason to fail, Ian realised now. Neither of them believing that they deserved this quiet bliss they had found together.

_But they did._

Harris bit down on the soft skin of his inner thigh, and Ian threw him off his body with a force that took them both by surprise. Harris crashed to the floor with an injured yelp, and Ian stared down at him coldly.

“ _No_.”

 

* * *

 

Mickey had no plan, other than to get here, but he knew he would figure it out. It was what Mickey did. What _he_ did.

 _Mickey fucking Milkovich_.

When he saw a bus boy approaching room 509 with a cart carrying a bottle of champagne and two glass flutes, Mickey actually smiled. _Act like him_.

“I’ve got it,” Mickey said confidently, heading down the hallway to the boy with an authoritative gait. He had his fingers curled around a crumpled twenty dollar bill in his pocket ready to press into the bus boy’s hand as a bribe, but then he remembered again. _Mickey fucking Milkovich._

“Who are you?” the bus boy replied warily, a hint of doubt in his voice, his hand already raised to knock at the door.

“I said,” Mickey ignored the question, his mouth twisting into a menacing scowl as he placed his hands firmly on the cart. “I’ve got it. Get the fuck out of here.”

They exchanged looks for a second, until the bus boy dropped his gaze and turned to leave. He slunk quickly down the hallway away from Mickey, casting resentful looks over his shoulder as he left.

Mickey turned to face the door. _Show time_ , he thought, feeling his heart skip a beat. He knocked on the door.

 

* * *

 

“What the hell was that for?” Harris yelled from his crumpled position on the floor. A knock sounded at the door before Ian could reply, and Harris's face creased in a resentful scowl. “Who- _oh_ , the champagne.”

Ian was already scrambling off the bed, reaching for his clothes as Harris turned to him.

“Stay the fuck there,” he bit out harshly, raising a hand to still Ian’s frantic movement. “This will only take a second.”

 

* * *

 

“Mr. Harris?” Mickey asked the tall, slender man with salt and pepper hair who pulled open the door. Mickey kept his face straight as he felt the cold hardness of the gun shift against his skin where it was wedged into the waistband of his jeans.

Harris appraised him curiously, taking in his informal attire half-hidden behind the hotel cart, then shrugged and nodded.

"Good." Mickey slammed the cart forward, pushing the door open with the metal frame and sending Harris stumbling backwards.

“What the _fuck_?” Harris cried out, but then Mickey was following the cart, shouldering his way into the room and slamming the door behind him.

“Mickey?” Shock threaded audibly through the relief in Ian’s question, but Mickey barely registered his semi-naked boyfriend standing next to the bed, shirt clutched in his hand. His attention was focused relentlessly on Harris.

“You wanted to get fucked, huh? You perverted asshole,” Mickey hissed, shoving the cart out of the way and approaching Harris with blazing eyes. “Well, you’re gonna get fucked alright.”

He pulled his fist back and slammed it into Harris’s face so hard he felt the bones in his knuckles crunch. Mickey didn’t register the pain; adrenaline surged through his body, powering each thrust as he pulled his hand back again and again. He made crippling contact with Harris’s face, his stomach, then gripped his shoulders to shove him violently against the wall, before kneeing the snivelling man in the balls. Harris dropped to the ground with a moan.

“Think ‘cause you’ve got money you can do whatever the fuck you want?” Mickey grunted as his foot connected with Harris’s ribs. Harris whimpered as he looked up at Mickey, blood pooling at the corner of his mouth and his eye already turning an angry shade of purple. “Get on the fucking bed,” Mickey instructed coldly, then turned to Ian.

“Clothes,” he bit out dispassionately.

Ian stared at him for a minute, green eyes meeting blue eyes, each trying to read the other. _Nothing_. There was too much being communicated in that look from both sides to decipher one feeling from another. They blinked and looked away at the same moment, Ian grabbing the shirt he had discarded moments earlier and yanking it over his head. His pants followed next, and he moved carefully around Harris as the older man crawled to the other side of the bed, reaching for the hotel phone.

Ian watched Harris pause as they heard the distinctive cock of a gun, and they both turned to see Mickey standing steadily, legs spread, barrel of the gun pointed directly at Harris.

“If you don’t think I’ll use it then you’ve never been to the South Side,” Mickey said to Harris coldly. “Now get on the fucking bed, you piece of shit.”

 

* * *

 

Mickey paced at the end of the bed, smoking his third cigarette in a row.

“The smoke alarms…” Ian had protested from the corner of the room when Mickey lit the first, but the icy look he had given the redhead at his words silenced him immediately.

Fifteen minutes had passed since Mickey first entered the room, and Harris’s pained moans had died down to broken whimpers as he lay huddled against the headboard, clutching his knees to his aching chest. Mickey kept the gun levelled at him, arm locked at a right angle to his body, unmoving, save for the repetitive motion of raising his cigarette to his lips every few seconds with his right hand.

Mickey’s gaze was fixed on Harris, Ian’s on Mickey. _Waiting_. Finally Mickey spoke.

“You went over the details like we planned, right?” Mickey said into the silence, his voice cold and hard. Ian blinked at him, confused. _Like we planned?_ They hadn’t planned anything.

“You clarified the deal you made with this shithead, is that correct? Before I showed up.” Mickey spoke slowly and clearly, enunciating every word deliberately as if he were speaking to a toddler.

“Y-yes,” Ian answered in a muffled confirmation. _What the fuck are you getting at?_ “But-”

“Talked about the money, the department, you fucking him, all that shit?” Mickey clarified, eyes still locked on Harris.

“Yes, but I-”

“Good, then we have it all on tape,” Mickey interrupted him coldly, turning to Ian as he dropped the cigarette to the carpet and stubbed it out with his toe. _Tape?_ Ian blinked at him again. _There is no fucking tape._

Mickey stared at him intently and Ian took a deep, shaking breath of comprehension. _Oh_. Mickey was lying.

“Yeah, I have it all here,” Ian patted the breast pocket of his plaid shirt, as if he had some sort of recording device concealed inside. He felt like an ass, but Mickey nodded approvingly. 

“Good." Mickey turned back to Harris. "You married?” He asked conversationally, as if the other man wasn’t lying broken and beaten in a hospital robe in front of him, gun pointed at his head. Ian flipped his head between the two, completely fucking lost.

“Fuck you,” Harris choked out through his bloody lip, then whimpered as Mickey approached, pressing the cold steel of the gun to his forehead.

“Mickey-” Ian began warningly, moving to follow him. Mickey held up a hand. _Stop_.

“I asked you a question, dickhead,” he repeated pleasantly, “Are you fucking married?”

“Yes,” Harris whispered, closing his eyes as Mickey pressed the gun against his forehead so hard the back of his head banged against the smooth wood of the headboard behind him.

“Kids?”

“ _Yes_.”

“How many?”

Harris opened his eyes then and shook his head a little, panic darkening his pupils.

“Relax asshole,” Mickey said wearily. “I ain’t no fucking kid killer. I only come after those stupid enough to come after me,” he flicked his gaze over to Ian briefly, “Or _mine_.”

“Two,” Harris admitted with a pained groan, closing his eyes again as Mickey nodded slowly.

“A wife, two kids, and you still want to come all the way up to the back ass of nowhere for a quick fuck, huh?” Mickey rolled his eyes and looked over to Ian, a morbid smile twisting his lips, “I don’t know what the hell you did to get this dickhead so bent out of shape, man. I saw your moves at the Fairy Tail. They were good, but they weren’t that fucking good.”

Ian choked out a surprised laugh at his words, and the sound was harsh and unforgiving in the tense silence. He held Mickey’s gaze for a second. _What the fuck are you doing?_

Mickey shrugged and said;

“Get his wallet.”

 _Those words._ Ian flashed back immediately to a night long forgotten, with him and Mickey and some decrepit old pervert they’d picked up at the club, looking to scam him for a quick buck. So different really, there was so much more riding on _this_ moment than that one, and yet somehow the same.

 _“That all you think he is? Some twink?”_ Mickey had challenged the man almost playfully as they robbed and beat the stranger looking to fuck Ian. Ian had loved it then, despite the fucked up situation that they themselves had orchestrated, to hear Mickey defend his fucking honor.

 _But it’s different now_ , Ian thought as he walked over to the hotel room desk, where Harris’s pants were folded neatly over the chair. He needed Mickey, he always needed Mickey, but he could see that Mickey needed him, too. His hands were shaking as he searched through the pockets. _Everything was different_. Ian didn’t need defending anymore. He shook his head to bring himself back to the present.

“It’s not here.”

Mickey jabbed the gun aggressively against Harris’s forehead again.

“T-the nightstand, in the drawer,” the older man choked out, a sob in his throat. Ian rounded the bed and pulled out the wallet from the drawer, holding it up to show Mickey.

“Driver’s license,” Mickey instructed coldly, twisting the nose of the gun against Harris’s forehead in bruising circles. Ian pulled the card out of the leather holder, and slipped it into his back pocket.

Mickey sighed, and shook his head.

“It didn’t have to be like this, you know, asshole?” He smiled congenially at Harris, then blinked. “Hey, I’m being fucking rude. What’s your name? We’re old friends now. I should know your fucking name.”

“James Harris,” Ian supplied, bouncing on the balls of his feet now. He was so keyed up, running on adrenaline he couldn’t contain as he shadowed Mickey tensely. _Don’t fucking shoot him, Mick._

“James,” Mickey echoed pleasantly, “Nice name for an asswipe of a guy.” He chuckled to himself, amused by his observation.

“So here it is, James, and you better listen fucking good, because I don’t like repeating myself.”

“Wait,” Ian interrupted, gripping onto Mickey’s forearm and pulling him back. Harris’s breath hitched nervously in his throat as the cool steel of the gun jostled against his skin in the movement. Mickey half-turned and glared at Ian.

“What the fuck?” Mickey tried to shake off his hand, but Ian just gripped him more tightly.

“Give me the gun, Mickey,” Ian murmured quietly, looking at him intently. _I’ve got this_. Mickey shook his head slightly, but his arm holding the gun to Harris’s forehead lowered slightly.

“The gun,” Ian repeated calmly, and he could see the recognition register in Mickey’s eyes at his words. Another memory; a messy bedroom on the South Side a lifetime ago, the same words, in a very different situation. _The beginning of it all._ Ian could have sobbed at the irony of it.

Mickey frowned, but turned away from Harris, handing the gun reluctantly to Ian.

Ian nodded at him. _This is my fight_.

Ian approached Harris slowly as Mickey stepped back. He pressed the gun to Harris’s forehead more lightly than Mickey had, but no less threateningly.

“You made a mistake, coming after me,” Ian began quietly. “I don’t think you understood that before, but you do now, don’t you?”

Harris nodded shakily, and Ian smiled.

“It’s okay, you’re gonna _make_ it okay. Let me tell you how,” Ian said, almost reassuringly. Mickey could have left the room at that point and Ian wouldn’t have noticed, he was so focussed on the man lying broken and bleeding on the bed. “You’re gonna donate every last penny of the money you discussed with White to the department, got it?” he paused as Harris nodded, then continued. “Then you’re gonna use all those powerful fucking contacts I’ve heard _so_ much about to get White fired.”

“I don’t think I-” Harris began, and Mickey reached around Ian to grip Harris’s short, neat strands of hair, slamming his head back against the wood with a sickening crunch.

“What was that?” Mickey asked calmly, stepping back behind Ian again.

“Yes, yes, okay,” Harris whimpered, wincing in pain as he tried unsuccessfully to back away from them both.

“As I was saying,” Ian continued, shaking his head at the interruption, “Then you’re gonna get the fuck out of Maine, and not get in touch with me again. You’re gonna do all this, because if you don’t, we’re gonna blast the recording of you negotiating our _special time_ together all over the fucking internet so damn fast even your _connections_ won’t be able to cover it up. Your colleagues will hear it, your friends will hear it, your family will hear it, and they’ll all know the truth about what a piece of shit you really are.”

He leaned in close and whispered in Harris’s ear so Mickey couldn’t hear him.

“And then, you waste of fucking life, I’m gonna come looking for you, and your pretty little wife.” He stood up straight and cocked his head wistfully. “Like Mickey said, we’re not the type of assholes that hurt innocent people deliberately, you know? But collateral damage, casualties of war, and all that. We don’t fuck around in the ROTC,” He mock saluted Harris with his free hand, then cocked the gun slowly, giving Harris an exaggerated wink. "Or on the South Side."

Mickey snapped his head up in shock at Ian’s words. Ian would never follow through on the threat, he knew that for sure, but his tone was so detached and convincing Mickey’s heart stilled for a second. If he didn’t know any better, he would take Ian’s words as gospel.

“Do you understand me?” Ian hissed.

Harris dropped his gaze, shoulders slumped as he nodded stiffly.

“I understand,” he whispered in a broken, uneven voice.

Ian smiled at him coldly, and lowered the gun. “Good.” He stepped away from the bed, rubbing his stiff shoulders with grimace. He turned to Mickey, eyes clear and bright, as he cocked his head towards the broken man on the bed.

“I’m good here,” he said to Mickey, “but you should feel free.”

For a second they stared at each other.

The Mickey in front of Ian wasn’t the calm, balanced Mickey of the last twelve months, but he wasn’t the ruthless, violent kid Ian had met on the South Side all those years ago either. This was a new Mickey, and Ian didn’t recognize him. It was fair, Ian supposed. He was different, too. Ian felt the change buzzing through his veins. Calmness, acceptance, absolute certainty... of what, Ian was still trying to figure out. As Mickey’s stare appraised him steadily, Ian could see him trying to identify the shift, too.

 _It’s okay,_ Ian nodded slightly. _It’s still me_. Then-

“Mickey,” Ian prodded him, gesturing at Harris on the bed. “You got something to take care of or what? ‘Cause I’m fucking hungry, man.”

His words jolted Mickey out of his trance, and he walked up to the bed as Ian stepped back.

“Get the fuck out of here, you asshole,” Mickey said coldly, leaning so close to Harris’s face he could feel the other man’s warm breath on his cheek. “And remember this; if you fuck up and Ian doesn’t have a chance to kill you,” he tightened his uninjured hand into a ball, and reared it back behind him, “ _I fucking will_.”

Mickey slammed his fist into Harris’s swollen cheek.

 

* * *

 


End file.
